A Study in Scarlet Suitcases
by Agatha Doyle
Summary: Harriett Winchester, a young, free-spirited American girl  who has just been made homeless by her hated stepmother,  interupts Holmes's investigation in to the murder of an arrogant stage actor when she claims that she and Holmes are family...
1. Prologue

**From Mrs Harriett Brown nee. Winchester, **

**Seven Sisters Cottage, East Dean, Sussex **

**August, 1925**

A great many things are remembered about the famous detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It is remembered that he was a master of deduction, a skilled logician, a talented musician, and one of the greatest (if not, the greatest!) criminal agents of his age. His many magnificent and startling adventures were lovingly chronicled by his good friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson, late of Her Majesty Queen Victoria's Indian Army, who came to live with him at the now famous address, No. 221b Baker Street in London. It is also remembered, or at least rumoured that, at some time, possibly during the year 1890 or 1891, a third party came to live at this address.

I have no doubt, dear reader, that in the wake of Mr. Holmes's recent death, you have heard a great many old folk raving about the strange young lady who used to live in Baker Street. And this lady, they say, was never to be seen without either Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson by her side, and I understand that the tale of the girl with the scarlet suitcases has become something of an urban legend. It makes me laugh to hear the whispers, to hear people puzzling over the identity of that peculiar young, American girl. And it brings a tear to my eye, for I miss those days deeply; but it is a comfort to relive them by writing them down here, as I have so longed to do, so that I might share my own adventures with the world, and also honour the memory of the man whom I came to love almost like a father.

My story begins in the year 1891, on the 23rd March to be exact. The date of my first adventure alone is enough to raise remark, for it was a mere six weeks before Holmes's legendary disappearance over the dreaded Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland; and indeed, this event has a great deal to do with why I have now chosen to publish my life with Sherlock Holmes, for there is a certain point in connection with it that has been misinterpreted for nearly thirty-five years. But my readers shall just have to wait for that story, for at present I have another to tell you...


	2. Chapter 1

"Go on...Out with you!"

It was with these words that my deeply loathed stepmother, Rowena Winchester, ejected me from the house, tossing a couple of already packed suitcases after me (Well, the butler tossed the suitcases after me. Rowena was not going to strain herself with work that could easily have been done by 'the help'.) I stumbled on to my hands and knees on the gravel pathway, and one of the thrown suitcases burst open beside me, spilling its contents all over the ground. I heard the heavy door slam behind me, and was left, angry and humiliated, on the path. I tried to remain calm. Straightening up, I dusted down my dress, and inspected the sore red marks that the gravel had left on my palms. They'd fade in a minute. I knelt down, and started to gather up the clothes that were strewn over the gravel; but as I did so, I noticed something. These were by no means all of my clothes (the second suitcase was too small to possibly be containing the rest,) and there were several other things missing, like my books, and the pretty Indian casket that I kept my father's watch and cufflinks in. I snapped.

Furiously, I hurled myself at the door, and gave it a savage kick, breaking one of Rowena's cherished flower pots in the process. I had always had a temper, and was very free with my emotions (one of the reasons why the prim, proper, and very English Rowena and I had never gotten along.) Feeling a little better after my outburst, I then went back to cramming my scattered possessions back in to the suitcase, and found amongst them a train ticket to London. Rowena obviously wanted me as far away as possible. Well, that was perfectly agreeable with me! I took up my cases, and stormed away from the house, coatless, hatless, penniless, and, worst of all, homeless. I made sure that I was well out of sight of the house before I allowed myself to cry.

Sitting quietly in my corner of a compartment on the train (my only fellow passenger being an eccentric looking, white bearded gentleman, reading a copy of the _Strand _magazine,) I gazed out of the window at the countryside that was racing by, and wondered whether I had perhaps been a bit rash. I had no money. I had no friends. I had nowhere to go in London (a city I had only been to once before in my life,) and did not do well in cities anyway, as I had lived in the country all my life. Not only that, but I had not even mastered proper English customs and manners yet, as I had only been living in England less than six months. I was born in Virginia, and had lived a free and secluded childhood there on a country estate in the rich forests and mountains. When my father's struggling horse breeding business had finally collapsed, however, the three of us – myself, Father, and the detestable Rowena – had been forced to move to Rowena's old family home in Kent (although I don't think Rowena needed much forcing. She had originally only been holidaying in Virginia when she had met and married my father when I was fourteen, and was visibly missing her most likely dull and _proper _life back in England.)

Without money, I could not get myself a hotel room (and even that would only have been a temporary solution,) so it looked like I would be doomed to sleep on the street if I could not think of something. My only option seemed to be finding a relative of some kind to take me in. A pity I had such a poor knowledge of my family, then! My grandmother, I knew, had been English (she had eloped to America with her husband many years ago,) so I _must _have had relatives in England somewhere, even if they were just distant ones. It was my only hope. I desperately began wracking my brains for names – odd uncles and aunts mentioned here and there, cousins whose names I might have glimpsed on a Christmas card list, obscure half-relations who would write every now and again for no reason other than to draw attention to their existence...

Ah! My grandmother had had a sister! She had had several of them, actually, if my vague memories of her rambling stories served me correctly, but there was one she had always spoken of. Yes, her especially pretty eldest sister, Elizabeth, who had married a brilliant but stern man by the name of Holmes (I remembered how my grandmother had always described him so vividly, saying that she had formed an instant dislike towards him, and how his cold, grey eyes used to frighten her.) But there was something else. I shut my eyes, tightly, as I concentrated, dragging the memories of my grandmother's long talks out of the dark corners of my mind. I recalled sitting on her lap, the soft, husky sound of her ancient voice, the strong scent of her perfume, and attempted to relive the memory. Something about the day Elizabeth had died...

Yes, that was it, there had been a letter! A letter from one of Elizabeth's friends (or possibly one of her husband's friends, but that was an irrelevant detail,) talking about her funeral, and how _someone _wasn't attending.

"I can see why they wouldn't, I suppose," I could hear my grandmother's voice in my head even now. "They would have barely known her. Poor boys, thrust in to the hands of a wet nurse at birth, locked in a nursery, then packed off to boarding school, I've always thought that was unnatural..."

I waved away the remembered sensation of Grandma's hand patting me on the head, and focused on her words. By the sounds of it, Elizabeth had had children, sons. It came to me in a rush – There were two sons, who I had remembered at the time because of their unusual Christian names. I did a quick calculation in my head, and happily realised that Elizabeth's children would most definitely still be alive, assuming something hadn't happened to them. Now all I had to do was remember those strange names.

But as it turned out, I didn't have to. For I was just running over the alphabet in my mind, waiting for one of the letters to jog my memory (a dreadfully slow way of recalling a name,) when the man sharing my compartment leaned across and asked, "Excuse me, miss, but would you mind if I closed the window? There's a slight draft."

"I can do it, if you like?" I said, rising out of my seat, but my fellow passenger quickly got up, and insisted that he would do it himself, being a gentleman. That was one of the things I was finding quite tiresome about English etiquette, women didn't seem to be capable of doing anything on their own – everywhere you went, someone was offering to carry your bag, or fetch something for you, or hold a door open, or _accompany _you (whatever that may have been.) In Virginia, I had been encouraged to do my own share of work in the stables, work being seen as healthy, but in England, I could not do so much as open a window by myself!

The man reached up with one hand to close the compartment window, while his other hand held the folded _Strand _magazine, his fingers stretching over the article he had been reading. The title of the article caught my eye, and my memory suddenly lurched...

"Pardon me?" I said, well aware that my voice was high with excitement. "May I take a look at..?" The gentleman looked down, and saw me pointing at the magazine.

"Oh," he said, cheerily, handing it to me. "You're a fan of Mr. Sherlock Holmes too?"

I smoothed out the page, and looked at the article entitled _'The Naval Treaty: A Sherlock Holmes Adventure, by Dr. John H. Watson'_, and merely replied that I had heard his name.

"Oh, you must read about his cases," my companion said, enthusiastically. "They're quite astonishing, each and every one of them!"

"Are there more?" I asked, as I scanned the article with interest.

For answer, the gentleman opened the briefcase he had sitting by his seat, and took out a bundle of old _Strand _magazines, bound together with string.

"I always take them with me on a journey," he said. 


	3. Chapter 2

I can honestly say that the time I spent on that train was the most extraordinary journey of my life. There I was, chatting, animatedly with my delighted travelling companion, pouring over the many fascinating accounts of Mr. Holmes's breath-taking cases, and all the while thinking that this man – this ingenious, famous man, whom I had never even heard of before today – was my own cousin! (Well, second cousin, if you wish to be technical about it.) This was surely a lifeline, a miracle! The address was mentioned in many of the articles, and I asked my compartment sharer if I could keep one of his copies of the _Strand _for reference (I decided not to mention to him that I was Mr. Holmes's distant relative, as I doubt he would have believed me if I had told him, it all seemed such a ludicrous coincidence!)

Once the train arrived at Paddington Station, I went to get a cab to take me to Baker Street, then remembered that I didn't have any money, so I would have to walk with my luggage (Little did she know it, but Rowena had actually done me a favour when she had given me only half of my possessions!) Of course, being so unfamiliar with London, I rather embarrassingly had to ask for directions (embarrassingly because I frankly looked rather odd, strutting about outside with a bare head and no coat or shawl, and yet carrying two suitcases with me, and I didn't want to draw attention to myself by stopping and talking to anyone.) Thankfully, Baker Street turned out to be only a short distance away, and I made my way there with relative ease, having to stop only once to give my arms a rest from carrying the weight of the suitcases (Despite my earlier scorning of the maddening level of British politeness, I was now rather starting to wish that someone would offer to carry my bags for me!)

And so, on the afternoon of the 23rd March, 1891, I peeped my shy, pale young face in to Baker Street for the first time. It was a wondrous sight for me, who was used to great, stretching acres of silent forests, and the beautiful loneliness of the mountains. The first thing I noticed was the change of smell. Horse muck and hay I was quite used to, but the scent of air thick with charcoal, and the whiff of strange, exotic foods and spices on the carts of foreign food vendors was quite new and baffling to me. The noise, too, was bizarre. In all my life, I had only ever known the peace and quiet of the country, and was quite unused to the sound of traffic and crowds. The sound of horses' hooves on cobbles seemed to fascinate my ears, for I had never heard a horse trotting on anything other than dirt mountain tracks, and plain, natural grass. And the shops! There was a jeweller's store by the name of Skelton, a foreign wine and spirits store, a little bookshop, a barbers shop with a caged canary hanging in the window, an office for the commission of oaths, and an acoustic instrument store. Quite a commonplace little street for the day, but to me, it was the most extraordinary place I had ever set eyes on.

Taking a look at the article in my hand, I doubled checked the number of the house that I was searching for. It was a funny number, I thought – 221b. Once I had found it, I confidently walked up the steps, set down my cases, and knocked. It was only at the very last moment, while I was stood waiting on the doorstep, that nerves suddenly began to attack. What was I doing? Was I just going to swan in, and beg a distant cousin whom I had never even met – who might not even know of my existence! – for bed and board? It would only have been temporary, of course, but didn't it all sound just a little presumptuous of me? I had almost made up my mind to pick up my cases again and make a run for it, when, to my great annoyance, the door opened, and a pleasant, motherly looking old woman, with grey hair piled up in a beehive on top of her head, stepped out to meet me.

"Yes, dear?" she asked in a voice as sweet as honey, and I felt somewhat comforted by her friendliness.

"Excuse me," I said, doing my best to put on a well-pronounced English accent; "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm looking for Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

'_Please tell me he isn't here!' _I thought, desperately.

"Of course, dear," the old woman said to my dismay. "Would you like to come in?"

'_NO!' _every ounce of my being seemed to scream.

"Yes, thank you," my mouth said, inexplicably.

Trembling with uncertainty, I followed the old woman's polite, gesturing arm, and stepped over the threshold, taking care not to bump my cases on anything, as the hallway was a little cluttered.

"Would you like me to take those, miss?" the old lady asked, being very nice and avoiding the obvious question as to why I was carrying a couple of suitcases around town.

"No, thank you," I said (_'Better keep them with you in case you get throw out!' _I thought.) The kindly old woman nodded at my answer, showing no sign of how odd she must have found it.

"Mr. Holmes is upstairs in the sitting room," she told me. "Dr. Watson is there too, I've just taken up some afternoon tea. Who should I say is calling?"

"Um..." I instantly blushed, and scolded myself for my dithering, then said, firmly, "Harriett Winchester. Miss Harriett Winchester. He most likely won't know me."

The old woman smiled and nodded, then made her way upstairs to announce my visit. At the top of the darkened staircase, I saw her open the door to the sitting room, and heard her muffled voice telling Mr. Holmes (who I could not see from where I stood at the bottom of the stairs,) that there was a young lady to see him, and mentioning my name. A proud, distinctive voice made a sharp reply, and I drew in my breath. I am not sure why, but something about the voice made me excited and expectant, and even more nervous. The old woman then said something which I could not make out, but afterwards there was a long pause, and a slight amount of grumbling. Curiosity compelled me to climb halfway up the staircase, but fear prevented me from going up on to the landing, in sight of the sitting room door. Just then, the old woman appeared above me, with a sunny expression on her features.

"Mr. Holmes will see you now, Miss Winchester," she said, waving me up on to the landing.

I smiled a very unsteady smile at her, and reluctantly climbed the rest of the stairs, my eyes refusing to look in to the sitting room. Evidently seeing how nervous I was, the old woman placed a hand on my shoulder, and guided me through the sitting room doorway.

"Miss Winchester," she said, announcing my presence as though I were a Countess.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said the gentleman standing nearest to the door. His voice was quite different to the voice I had heard at the bottom of the stairs, and I also somehow instinctively knew that he was not Sherlock Holmes. The man on the other side of the room, however, I instantly knew was.

He was seated in an armchair drawn up on one side of the fireplace (in front of which there was stretched a gloomy looking, brown bulldog,) lounging in a leisurely manner, with his long legs crossed before him. Although he was sitting down, I could tell from the length of his legs that he was a tall man, about six foot, and the fact that he was dressed head to toe in glossy black made him appear even taller. He had a dark, finely sculpted head, the shape of which, for some reason unknown to my conscious mind, but probably lurking somewhere in my subconscious, suggested intelligence. His long, fine, white hands were busy fiddling with a black clay pipe, which for some reason he seemed to be inspecting (or perhaps that was just his usual look?) His eyes, however, were what drew my attention the most. They were large, striking, and inquisitive, and yet held in their luminous grey depths a definite coldness, like two bleak ponds in winter, which caused an unsettling conflict of fascination and fear in the pit of one's stomach. I could now well understand why my grandmother had been so afraid of Holmes's father.

"Good afternoon, Miss Winchester," the second man said, brightly, reminding me of his existence. "I'm Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes's colleague."

"How do you do?" I said, politely, motioning to take his outstretched hand, before realising that I was still holding my suitcases. I smiled, rather self-consciously, and placed them down beside the settee in the middle of the room, and finally shook Dr. Watson's hand.

Watson I found I immediately warmed to. He had a warm, trusting face, adorned with a fair moustache, and a pair of gleaming brown eyes, that rather reminded me of my father. I somehow felt safer and less nervous with him in the room than I thought I would have felt if I had been with Holmes on my own. As I moved to the settee at Watson's invitation, I felt Holmes's penetrating gaze on me, and once again rather embarrassingly found myself looking away. There was a moment or two of polite fidgeting about, while Watson offered me tea and scones from the tray that was on the table, both of which I declined, but I did take his offer of a glass of water. Watson then seated himself in the spare armchair, and looked, expectantly across at Holmes, and I forced myself to do the same.

"Well, Miss Winchester," Holmes began in his peculiarly enthralling tones, setting down his pipe, and leaning forwards in his chair; "I would have sent you away, seeing as how Dr. Watson and myself have just sat down for afternoon tea, but Mrs. Hudson insisted that you were young and looking rather nervous, so I felt obliged to let you up."

I thought that this was a rather rude introduction, and I almost made a very terse reply back; but, remembering that I was a guest in someone's home, and that I was supposed to be acting like a lady, I simply clasped my hands in my lap, and said, "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Holmes."

There was a brief pause as Holmes contemplated me for a moment, then he said, to my complete surprise, "And now, my dear young lady, tell me why your stepmother had turned you out of your house?"

I started, violently in my seat, simply unable to retain my composure, and stammered, stupidly, "How did you know..?"

A quiet smile of delight tugged at the corner of Holmes's mouth, and he pointed at my suitcases beside the settee.

"A little strange, isn't it, for a lady to be walking around London carrying luggage? I dare say you wouldn't be doing it if you had anywhere to go?" I blushed, fiercely, for I realised that everything about me was utterly exposed before his eyes...Well, almost everything.

"Yes, Holmes," said Watson, who was sitting, eagerly forwards in his seat, "but that still doesn't explain how you knew about the girl's stepmother..."

"In a moment, Watson," Holmes said, holding up a hand. "I believe this young lady needs our help." Watson shifted, uncomfortably, and nodded an apology to me, which I answered with an understanding smile. I was just as eager to find out how on Earth Holmes knew about Rowena throwing me out of the house as he was!

"Seeing as you are here," Holmes went on, placing his fingertips together, "I am guessing that there is some crime connected with the affair?"

"Well, yes, there is," I said. Now that I thought about it, maybe Holmes could help me with that too? I did not much like being called a thief...

"Please tell us of it," said Holmes, taking up his pipe again, and reaching across to a Persian slipper that dangled from the mantelpiece (which I was startled to see was filled with tobacco!)

I sat, uncomfortably where I was for a moment, then shook myself, and cleared my throat.

"Well," I said, speaking slowly as I carefully chose my words, "my stepmother Rowena and I..."

"...Have never gotten along..."

I looked up in surprise at Holmes, who had finished my sentence for me.

"Yes," I said, nodding. "You see, it's only been a few months since..."

"...Since your father died..." said Holmes. I raised my eyebrows. So did Dr. Watson.

"Yes," I said with a frown. "So you see, I've been left alone with Rowena, and things have been getting..."

"...Far worse between you..."

"Exactly. Just yesterday, Rowena called me in to her bedroom in a complete rage, and told me that the pearl necklace my father had given her for their wedding was missing."

"I see," said Holmes, who was by this time leaning back in his chair again, puffing on his pipe, and looking a little bored. I would have checked him on this, had I not been desperate, and wanting to make a good impression.

"She accused me of stealing the pearls," I continued, bristling with anger as I remembered Rowena shouting her accusations at me. "She said that I'd always hated her and been jealous of her, and that I'd do anything to upset her..."

"And would you?" Holmes asked, looking at me, intently over his pipe. I thought, carefully for a moment.

"I do hate her, Mr. Holmes," I confessed. "I really do hate her..."

"Enough to steal her pearls?" This stunned me.

"No!" I cried with a flash of anger. "Never! I didn't steal those pearls, and she knows it, but she hates me just as I hate her, she'd give any excuse to turn me out on to the street! I don't want anything from that woman!.."

I stopped suddenly, as I realised I'd been shouting. Dr. Watson was looking at me with a rather concerned expression, while Holmes had only raised one, slanting eyebrow, and was giving Watson a sideways look. There was nothing I could do but lower my head in shame.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," I said, taking a sip of water. "I don't wish to seem crude, it's just..."

"You have only been living in England a short while, previously lived a very free lifestyle in the remote American mountainside, and have not yet grown accustomed to the quite different social expectations and demands," said Holmes, understandingly, talking as though his suddenly knowing every detail of my life was quite an ordinary occurrence. "It is quite understandable."

I simply stared at him in utter disbelief, then exchanged a look with Dr. Watson, who was looking just as baffled, but resignedly, as though he was used to Holmes coming out with apparently miraculous knowledge.

"Well, that's it, Mr. Holmes," I said after recovering. "That's why my stepmother threw me out of the house. I thought that maybe you could help me clear my name..."

"Has your stepmother threatened to have you arrested for the theft?" Holmes asked, casually.

"Well, no, but..."

"Thank you, Miss Winchester," said Holmes, breathing out a cloud of curling, white tobacco smoke, "but I'm afraid the petty theft of a simple string of pearls is of no interest to me as a case."

"What?" I said, my head jerking up. "You're not going to do anything?"

"I have far more important things to attend to," Holmes said, tossing aside his pipe, and pouring himself a cup of tea from the pot. "Now, if I may bid you good day, Mrs. Hudson will show you to the..."

"But Mr. Holmes," I cried, desperately, without thinking, "I'm your cousin!"


	4. Chapter 3

Holmes's teacup paused in mid-air, halfway to his lips. On the opposite side of the fireplace, Dr. Watson was looking back and forth between myself and Holmes, his expression the very picture of shock. Even the bulldog on the carpet was looking a little startled. I just sat, frozen on the settee, now seemingly unable to tear my eyes away from Holmes. I had wanted to mention my relation to Holmes gradually, and perhaps with a little more grace than simply blurting it out in desperation, like a madwoman. But, all was now out in the open, I reasoned, and there was nothing I could do but wait for Holmes's reaction. To say that it was not quite what I had hoped for would have been a generous statement.

"I beg your pardon?_" _Holmes almost spat, looking at me with a disgusted expression, as though I had just flung some vile curse at him. I resisted the urge to recoil in fear as the deep grey pools that were his eyes seemed to freeze over.

"I...I'm your cousin," I repeated, calmly, twisting my fingers together in my lap. "Well, your second cousin, to be exact, you see my grandmother..."

"_I don't have any cousins,_" Holmes said, firmly, and there was an icy undertone to his voice that sent a chill down my spine.

"Holmes!" Watson said in an appalled tone. "Let the young lady explain!" He got up, and moved to sit beside me on the settee, leaning in with the air of a parent listening to a child, and shooting a warning glare at Holmes. "What do you mean, Miss Winchester?"

My heart was thudding in my chest. For whatever reason, my revelation had upset Holmes greatly, and all my irrational instincts were telling me not to say anymore, and to just grab my suitcases, and run from 221b; but Watson's kindness and my rational head persuaded me to explain.

"I'm a relative of yours, Mr. Holmes," I said, addressing Holmes, but not actually looking at him. "On your mother's side." I paused to see if he would say anything to this.

"How so?"

I glanced up to see that Holmes had resumed his former position of lounging back in his chair, smoking his pipe, and I relaxed a little.

"Your mother, she had a sister..."

"My mother had four sisters, Miss Winchester," Holmes snapped, biting on the stem of his pipe; "You'll have to be a little more specific." I swallowed, uncomfortably, feeling as though I were on trial.

"Mabel."

Holmes sat still in his chair for a moment, then said, "Ah yes, the youngest sister. She eloped to America, I believe, married an American playwright by the name of..." He stopped suddenly. The unspoken name drifted in mid-air between us. I knew it, Holmes knew it, even Watson knew it, but we still waited with baited breath for Holmes to utter the name out loud. Eventually, he did, and it was in a cold and sneering tone; "...Winchester."

"That's right," I said, breathlessly. "My father was their only son."

"Well, this is remarkable, Holmes!" Watson said, cheerily, though it was obvious that he was trying to prompt Holmes. "To think that you had a cousin in the United States all these years! I don't suppose you would have heard of Mr. Holmes's reputation all the way across the Atlantic, miss?"

"I only heard about him today," I said. I looked across at Holmes, and, quite inexplicably and without warning, my face broke in to a fond smile. "I didn't think I had any family left in the world after my father died..."

"Yes, well," said Holmes, awkwardly, lifting himself up in his chair, and tucking his legs beneath him, "your stepmother still counts as your closest family, despite how cruel she may have been to you."

"How did you know about her?" I pressed, leaning across the coffee table. "How did you know she'd turned me out?"

"A few suggestions here and there," said Holmes, pointing to my suitcases. "Your luggage obviously told me that you had either just left or were on your way home after a trip, but it's unlikely that, if you were travelling home after staying in London, you would be carrying your luggage through the streets to get there, and unlikelier still that you would have come here _with_ your luggage, when you could easily have left it back at the hotel, or wherever you might have been staying, and gone to collect it later. As for departing from home, we are faced with the exact same impossibilities – Why walk through the streets with your luggage if you have the option of taking a cab, and why come here before dropping your luggage off at your destination? Answer – You do not have the option of taking a cab, nor do you have a destination. You have been forced to take to the streets with your possessions, and have therefore been ejected from your home."

"Perfectly obvious," I said, which caused Holmes to look up with a slightly indignant expression; "But how did you know it was my stepmother who threw me out, and how did you know I even had a stepmother?"

"There are several clues," Holmes said with the same matter-of-fact tone; "One being that those suitcases are clearly not yours." This positively threw me!

"_What?_" I said, leaning over the arm of the sofa, and looking down at the cases. "How can you tell they're not mine?"

"They are scarlet."

I looked at Holmes for a moment, then looked over at Dr. Watson, who simply shook his head.

"Why should that mean anything?" I asked. Holmes sighed, irritably, and re-lit his pipe.

"Young ladies with pale auburn hair, such as yourself," he said, "do not, in this image-conscious day and age, own suitcases which clash with the shade of their hair. And in any case, there are the peeling remnants of a pair of initials stamped on the side of the round case there, 'R.W.' The W most likely stands for Winchester, seeing as we know that is your surname, but your Christian name, as Mrs. Hudson mentioned to us when she announced your visit, is Harriett, which begins with an H. These cases, then, cannot be yours, but probably belong to someone in your family."

"Yes, but..."

"The ring you wear on your right hand is old and uncleaned, so we can assume that it is a family heirloom, passed down, as is often the case with jewellery, from mother to daughter. You are only around sixteen years of age, however, so your mother, were she alive, would not be more than forty-five or so. If this is, as we assume, your mother's ring, then she would still have recently been wearing it, and would have cleaned it. In the event of either your mother choosing to pass the ring on to you now, or of her recent death, the ring would still be clean, so what does this show? That the ring has been stored away for some time – perhaps sixteen years or so – allowing it to accumulate dirt, and has only been given to you now. This indicates that your mother died in childbirth, or at least when you were a very small child, that her ring was put away for you to have when you grew older, and makes the likelihood of you having a stepmother much more probable."

"You can't know that..."

"As for your relationship with your stepmother, that was all too obvious. There are some finger marks on your left wrist..."

Watson's head jerked up, and I immediately made to cover my wrist, put he snatched it up, and pulled down my sleeve, revealing the sore, red and purple marks that Rowena had left there the previous day, when she had accused me of stealing her pearls.

"I noticed them as you set down your suitcases," Holmes continued, puffing, thoughtfully on his pipe, and apparently absorbed in a world of his own. "The marks are too small to have been left by a man's hand, so they must have been inflicted on you by a woman, meaning that you most definitely _do _have a stepmother, as there is often a strained relationship between stepparents and their stepchildren. There was also something slightly odd about your walk as you moved round to sit on the settee..." Breathing heavily, I picked up my glass of water from the coffee table, and took a sip to steady the sickening sensation that was brewing in my stomach.

"...You walk with a very slight limp, and as you sat down, I noticed you holding your back particularly stiffly. This can only be the result of repeated canings..."

"Holmes..." said Watson, nervously.

"...Usually it's the fathers who cane their children, but there is a mourning locket around your neck, bearing the portrait of a man. There is some family resemblance, so the man is likely to be your father, and the new condition of the locket shows that he died recently. Why would you wear a mourning locket for a man who repeatedly beat you? Evidently your father was dear to you, and not one to hand out beatings, so the canings must have been administered by your stepmother, thus showing her feelings towards you, and her likelihood to throw you out of the house as soon as your father passed away..."

Unable to listen to any more, I took up my glass, and hurled the water over Holmes in an overwhelming fit of fury. With burning hot tears now running down my face, I fled from the sitting room, dashed down the stairs, and bolted out of the front door of No. 221b, wishing that I had never set foot in it.


	5. Chapter 4

I collapsed in tears on the front steps, uncaring for anyone who might stare at me as they passed. How dare he. How _dare _Holmes come out with all those things about me, talking about them as though they were nothing, like a complete, insensitive boar! What made it worse, of course, was the fact that it was all perfectly true. My mother had died in childbirth, and the ring that I wore was hers, which had been given to me by Father shortly before his death (It was her engagement ring, and he had saved it especially for me.) Father had caught some kind of infection during our journey to England six months ago, which had simply refused to fade away, and eventually caused his death, just two months previously. And Holmes was right, Rowena had began practicing frequent, brutal canings on me shortly after her marriage to Father for even the slightest thing, even though I was much too old to be caned, but I had had no idea that it had physically affected me.

Whilst I sat, crying softly on the steps of 221b, I heard the door open behind me, and a warm, broad hand placed itself on my shoulder.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," I said, without looking up. A handkerchief dangled before my face, and I took it, gratefully, and dabbed at my streaming eyes.

"I'm so sorry he upset you," said Watson, crouching down, and squeezing on to the steps beside me. "He is a little emotionally detached, you see, his mind is nothing but logical..."

"I know," I sniffed, attempting to hide my face with the handkerchief, as I could now feel my cheeks glowing scarlet with embarrassment. "I've read your stories. I just wasn't...I didn't think he'd be that cold, that's all. It was as if he didn't care that he'd remind me of all those things."

"I do apologize," said Watson, sympathetically, laying a hand on my arm. "It was inappropriate. And I'm sure Holmes will apologize too, I've had words with him about his behaviour..."

"_I'm _the one who should apologize!" I said, remembering how I had thrown the glass of water over Holmes. I looked up at Watson, feeling mortified. "Dr. Watson, please forgive me, I know I have a temper, and although it's no excuse for what I did..."

"You acted hotly, but understandably," the doctor said, soothingly. "It was a mere outburst of strong emotion, it happens to us all. Now, come back inside. We still have to solve your accommodation problem."

He took me by the shoulders, and raised me off of the steps, then led me back through the door, past Mrs. Hudson, who was standing in the hallway, resembling a startled rabbit. Holmes was still in the sitting room, pipe in one hand, and a rag in the other, wiping the front of his soaking, black waistcoat. I felt a rush of shame as he glared at me.

"Right," said Watson, completely ignoring Holmes, and going over to my suitcases; "There is a room on the second floor, Miss Winchester, next to mine. It's used as a museum for Holmes's case souvenirs at the moment, but we can clear it out a bit..."

"I beg your pardon?" said Holmes, looking up at Watson. "Watson, what are you doing?"

"...There is a sofa in there that you can sleep on for tonight, if you wouldn't mind that?" Watson went on, picking up my cases, and taking them to the door. "We can arrange to have a bed set up in there at some point." I simply gawped at him.

"You mean..?" I stammered in disbelief, "...You mean, I can stay here?"

"Watson, have you gone quite mad?" Holmes barked. "There is no room!"

"We manage to find room for your multitudes of curiosities and experiments, Holmes," said Watson, beginning to carry my cases upstairs, "we can therefore find room for Miss Winchester."

"It is not your place to say who we do and don't have room for!" Holmes said, throwing aside the rag in his hand, and marching out on to the landing. "What will Mrs. Hudson say?"

"She has agreed that Miss Winchester can stay here under the circumstances."

"Without paying rent?" Holmes snorted. "Watson, this lady is surely taking advantage of our landlady's hospitality!.."

"And you don't by firing holes in to her wall with a revolver, and setting fire to her furniture with chemicals?"

"Watson, this is ridiculous..!"

"She's your cousin, Holmes!" Watson said, sternly, turning in the middle of the stairway to face him. "And what's more, she is a sixteen year old girl! Would you force a sixteen year old girl to sleep on the streets of London? You, who have shown such sympathy and kindliness towards the Irregulars?"

Watson had evidently learned how to twist Holmes's moral arm, for the man pursed his lips in frustration, and then finally gave in.

"Oh, very well!" he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Let the child stay here, let all havoc ensue!"

"Good," said Watson (who I could see was fighting to disguise a smug grin.) "Miss Winchester, follow me."

I made to follow Watson up the stairs, but turned as I did so to look at Holmes. Before I could meet his eyes, however, he turned, swiftly on his heel, marched in to his bedroom (which was next door to the sitting room,) and slammed the door.


	6. Chapter 5

I awoke the next morning in the small storage room of 221b, which had been converted in to a private museum of Holmes's unusual souvenirs from his many cases, with the taxidermy hand of a gorilla looming over me. I had spent the night on the moth-eaten but comfortable sofa that was in the room (and which had previously been buried beneath a mound of Holmes's bizarre keep-sakes,) under a woollen blanket, which may sound unpleasant to some, but which was nothing to me, who had occasionally spent nights as a child sleeping on the straw in the stables in Virginia of my own free will and accord. I was just grateful to Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson for taking me in (although it was obvious that Holmes was not pleased about it.) I wondered why Holmes had formed a seemingly instantaneous dislike towards me (Admittedly I had attacked him with a glass of water yesterday, but even before that event had happened, he had seemed to loathe my presence.) Was it because I was American? Was it because I was young and (in his eyes) foolish? Was it because I was a woman? Or was it something much deeper?..

An inquiring knock at the door then informed me what it was that had woken me up.

"Miss Winchester?" a familiar, honeysuckle voice called through the door. "May I come in, miss?"

"Just a minute," I called back, scowling up at the disturbing, mounted gorilla hand. I riffled through the contents of one of my suitcases, which I had packed in to an old chest of drawers drawn up against the wall, found my blue, lace trimmed dressing gown, and slipped it on over my night dress (Rowena had at least had the good grace to pack some night wear for me.) "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson."

"Good morning, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, chirpily, entering the room bearing a bowl of hot water, a large sponge, and a couple of clean towels. "I thought you might like to wash in here, seeing as the gentlemen use the bathroom?"

"Thank you," I said as she set down the basin. "Mrs. Hudson?.." I hesitated for a moment, wondering if perhaps my question was inappropriate, and not a little silly.

"Yes, my dear, what is it?" Mrs. Hudson urged.

"Mrs. Hudson, my family...Mr. Holmes's family I mean, specifically on his mother's side...Does Mr. Holmes have any reason to resent them at all?"

"Resent them?" Mrs. Hudson looked quite surprised. "Miss Winchester, you aren't under the impression that Mr. Holmes dislikes you, are you?"

'_Under the impression?' _I thought. _'He looked at me with eyes of poison yesterday!'_

"Does Mr. Holmes not like his relatives?"

"He doesn't have any relatives, miss," Mrs. Hudson said with a shrug. "No aunts or uncles that I'm aware of, parents died several years ago...All he has is his brother, Mycroft."

"I see." Maybe my coming out of the blue had just shocked Holmes, seeing as he didn't seem to possess any other family?..Then, something Mrs. Hudson had said struck me.

"Wait...Mycroft?"

"Oh yes, miss," Mrs. Hudson said with a nod; "Mr. Holmes's brother, seven years his senior. He visited here not long ago, it was the first time I'd ever seen him. Apparently he doesn't go out much."

I simply nodded my head. There was another cousin I had known absolutely nothing about. Maybe this was how Holmes felt? Suddenly discovering a family member when you believed you had had no one else in the world, and struggling to get your mind around the fact.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, miss," Mrs. Hudson said, exiting the room. "Breakfast is downstairs on the table, and Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are already up. Rather nice, cooking for an extra person, I must say. Reminds me of when all my children were still here..."

Once I had washed and dressed myself, and arranged my hair in the rather dusty old mirror that hung on the wall, I took a deep breath to compose myself, and then headed downstairs to the sitting room for breakfast. There I found Watson, seated at the table and reading the _'Times'_, with a plate of ham and eggs and a cup of coffee in front of him, whereas Holmes (who, judging by the two empty plates left on the table, hadn't taken any breakfast at all,) was standing with one elbow on the mantelpiece, looking thoroughly impatient.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson," I said, deciding that it was perhaps best not to try and talk to Holmes.

"Good morning, Miss Winchester," said Watson, pleasantly, as I took a chair at the breakfast table. He looked across at Holmes, but the detective was paying us no heed whatsoever, and seemed not to have even noticed my entering the room. Watson scowled.

"I hope you didn't have an uncomfortable night," he said a little loudly, obviously trying to get Holmes's attention (It didn't work.)

"No, no, I was fine," I said, also giving Holmes a rather hopeful glance (Why was I suddenly so desperate for his acceptance?) Still seeming not to hear us, Holmes slapped his hand against the mantelpiece in frustration, and stormed out on to the landing. I felt my heart sink in bitter disappointment.

"Is he waiting for something?" I asked Watson, soothing my disappointment with a piece of hot buttered toast.

"Lestrade's coming," Watson explained, folding his newspaper, and setting it down. "I trust you do know who..?"

"Yes, the Scotland Yard Inspector," I said, remembering. "I read about him in your accounts. Does he have a case for Holmes?"

"I should think so," said Watson, before taking a mouthful of devilled egg. "He sent a telegram asking for me to be present aswell, so there should be a bod – " He checked himself before completing the word 'body', and smiled, apologetically at me.

"It's alright, Dr. Watson," I said with a grin. "I have strong nerves." Suddenly, Holmes flung himself back in to the room, and marched across to the windows.

"By all the Saints!" he cried, throwing up the blind. "Lestrade said nine o'clock!"

"Holmes!" Watson snapped, nodding towards me. "We have a lady present!" Holmes turned from the window, and looked at me as though seeing me for the first time.

"Oh, yes," he said, bowing his head. "Good morning, Miss Winchester."

"Good morning," I said, shyly, frightfully relieved that he didn't seem angry with me. As Holmes went back to looking out of the window for Lestrade, Watson picked up the drained coffee pot from the table, and held it up so that his face was blocked from Holmes's view.

"Why don't you try talking to him?" he said, quietly to me. "I think it would be good for Holmes to have a bit more family in his life."

My stomach did somersaults at the idea of being alone with Holmes, but I gathered my courage, and nodded to Watson, who smiled, sweetly, and then turned to Holmes.

"Holmes?"

"Hm?"

"Holmes, we've run out of coffee. Shall I ask Mrs. Hudson to make some more?"

"Hm," Holmes said, vaguely. Watson paused for a moment, then shook his head, and got up with the empty coffee pot, and went downstairs.

I sat, rather awkwardly, and not a little terrified, in my chair, staring ahead at the fireplace like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. After a few moments of heavy silence, however, I noticed Holmes shoot me a lightning-fast glance out of the corner of his eye, and I took another piece of toast to make it look as though I were doing something.

"Did you have something," Holmes said suddenly, making me jump, "you wished to say to me, Miss Winchester?" I froze.

"Yes," I began, tremulously; "Yes, I...I'm sorry I was so crude as to throw a glass of water over you yesterday." Holmes gave me a careless, sideways glance, but said nothing, so I carried on;

"And I wondered how you knew I'd grown up in America in the mountain regions? You mentioned that yesterday, but you never explained it."

Holmes lifted his chin, and I fancied I saw a faintly proud smile cross his face.

"I believe I said exactly that you had not been living in England long, and that you had previously lived a very free life in the American mountainside, and so were finding it difficult to adjust to English social expectations and demands?" he said. I once again felt very exposed.

"Yes," I admitted, a little reluctantly; "That's all correct." Holmes's smile was clear this time.

"Your accent was a fairly obvious clue," he said. "Had you come to England anything beyond six years ago as a child, I fancy your accent would have been erased by now, so you clearly didn't grow up here. Judging by the tone of your accent, you are from the south, specifically one of the South Atlantic states, such as Georgia or Virginia, which are particularly mountainous regions of the United States. Also, your boots are sturdier than usual for ladies boots, suggesting they were made for travelling over rough terrain. The fact that you were noticeably attempting to speak clearly and remain composed during your conversation showed that you were still learning social etiquette, so you cannot have been in England for more than a matter of months..."

"Six months," I said.

"Really?" said Holmes. "I suspected four or five."

There was something particularly cold and sneering about the way he said this that stirred up my emotions. Still fighting to keep a steely, composed expression, I stood up with my hands on my hips, and dared to say, "Mr. Holmes, is there something about my being here that upsets you?"

Holmes turned, slowly, and looked at me with those frosty, grey eyes that dripped sarcasm. In conflict with his ice, I attempted to summon up as much fire as I could in to my hazel eyes, and shot a determined look back at him. After a moment or two of silent contest, Holmes looked down at the floor (although in a way that suggested he had certainly not been beaten,) and approached the table.

"Miss Winchester," he said, serenely, inspecting the tablecloth with his fingers; "I am sorry if this appears ungentlemanly of me, but, as you know, I am an extremely busy man. I am the only consulting detective in the world. I do not have the time, nor the patience, to take care of a child, nor can I abide, if I am being very honest, the presence of women..."

"Yes, you say that, Mr. Holmes," I said, keeping my eyes rigidly fixed on him and full of fire (Why I thought this would help me, I am not sure, but Holmes certainly seemed capable of beating people down with his eyes;) "But I think you're a little more compassionatethan you would have people believe." If this had any kind of effect on Holmes at all, then he certainly hid it very well.

"And why would you say that, Miss Winchester?" he asked, coolly.

"Up in your 'museum'," I began, "the room I stayed in last night, there's a little table under the mirror, with a cabinet picture of a lady on it. That's a rather sentimental keep-sake to take from a case." I glared at him, searching for a flinch or a muscle spasm in his face, anything that would betray what he was feeling. He did not so much as blink.

"Also," I continued, relentlessly, determined to beat some kind of reaction out of him, "when I was storing my clothes inside the chest of drawers last night, I noticed a dress – an electric blue dress – folded inside the top drawer. It was the only thing stored in the drawers when I first opened them." Holmes's face was still infuriatingly blank. I positively shot daggers at him through my eyes. "You see, Mr. Holmes, you claim to have a low opinion of women, and yet you help them at every turn!"

There was a ringing silence. I could feel my temper rising again, and felt that I would hurl some of the breakfast at Holmes...when suddenly, and to my complete and utter confusion, he smiled! And a true smile at that, not a sarcastic curling at the corner of the lips, but a rather pleased and almost pleasant smile.

Just then, Holmes's head whipped round as quick as a cat, and he jumped over to the window, as though he had heard something (although I had not noticed anything in particular.) His smile grew in to an elated grin as he looked down in to the street, and it was the happiest I had yet seen him.

"Ah!" he muttered to himself. "Lestrade, at last!" He swept out of the room and down the stairs without even a second glance at me, almost colliding with Watson returning with a fresh pot of coffee as he went. I stared after him with a bemused frown on my face.

"I take it Lestrade has arrived, then?" said Watson, placing the coffee pot on the table. "Did you talk to Holmes?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but found that I had no words to describe my conversation with Holmes. I had never been so perplexed by a smile in all my life! I had been quite rude to him, I fancied – even ruder than I had been yesterday, when I had throw the glass of water over him, for women were not supposed to contradict men (I had been severely scolded for that in America, as well as in England.) What, then, did Holmes find so amusing?

"He surprised you, I see," said Watson, smiling slightly at my expression. "Well, he can be civilised, occasionally. At least he hasn't upset you again."

"Yes," I said, slowly, moving away from the breakfast table to lean against the wall, and think (I decided not to tell Watson that Holmes had been just as unfriendly towards me as he had been yesterday.) Sherlock Holmes was a most unusual man!

There came the sound of ascending footsteps from the stairway, and Holmes re-entered the room, followed by a small, thin, gangly gentleman, who rather resembled a rodent in the face, but who had large, amiable looking eyes.

"Will you take some coffee, Lestrade?" Holmes asked, gesturing to the breakfast table.

"No, thank you, Mr. Holmes," our visitor said, in a high-pitched, weasely voice. "I'd appreciate it if you and Dr. Watson came with me at once, sir, there's been..." It was at this point that Lestrade spotted me standing against the wall.

"Oh," he said, looking a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, I didn't realise you had a visitor."

"Not at all, Lestrade," said Holmes, dismissively. "Miss Winchester is, in fact, not a visitor of ours, she is merely..."

"She's Holmes's cousin, from America," Watson cut in, causing Holmes to give him a furious look.

"Oh, is she now!" Lestrade said with surprise. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Winchester," he said, tipping his hat to me; "Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard."

"How do you do, Inspector?" I said, placing my hand in his. "Were you about to say, by any chance, that there's been a..."

"Yes, yes, I don't think it's quite appropriate for Miss Winchester to be exposed to this particular conversation, do you, Watson?" Holmes said, quickly.

"Indeed not," said Watson, severely. "Miss Winchester, perhaps you'd like to take a quick walk, get to know the area a little?"

"On my own, doctor?" I said, for I was by this time fiercely curious, and had no intention of leaving the room.

"She could take the dog," Holmes suggested, looking at the bulldog curled up in his basket in the corner, who peered up at Holmes with, I could almost imagine, a face of dread.

"Oh," I said, sighing, inwardly, for I realised that this was a battle I was not going to win. "Very well, then." Holmes heaved the miserable looking dog from his basket.

"His name is Gladstone," Watson said, leashing the dog, and handing him to me; "After William Ewart Gladstone, the former Prime Minister." I was not sure how flattered the former British Prime Minister would have been to have had this rather ugly dog named after him.

Nevertheless, I took Gladstone in my arms (he weighed about as much as a large stack of books,) and carried him out on to the landing. I lingered at the top of the stairs, however, and leaned back a little to hear what I could of Holmes and the Inspector's conversation (Gladstone giving an almost disapproving grumble as I did so.)

"That's a very pretty young cousin you've got there, Mr. Holmes, if you don't mind me saying," Lestrade said.

"Yes Lestrade, but possessed of a rather ugly temperament, I'm afraid."

"Now, Holmes," Watson chided, "you know perfectly well that that was your own fault!"

"Whatever faults I may have, Watson," Holmes said, and I could sense him fixing his colleague with one of his looks, "we'll have to move the girl on at some point. She's in the way here."

Singed, I huffily made my way downstairs, borrowed a coat and hat from Mrs. Hudson, which she had spare from when her daughter had lived in Baker Street, and walked out of the front door, with Gladstone waddling ahead of me. As I looked up at No. 221b, however, I decided that, although I had lost the battle, I had certainly not yet lost the war.


	7. Chapter 6

I didn't go for a walk – I waited with Gladstone just around the corner from 221b for around ten minutes, watching for Holmes, Watson and Lestrade's departure (Gladstone, the poor thing, seemed to get tired of waiting very quickly, and leaned, heavily against my leg, as though he would at any moment drop down on the pavement and fall asleep.) The three men eventually left the house, and climbed in to a waiting four-wheeler, with Lestrade telling the driver, "Back to the Albert then, Williams." The driver nodded, shook his reins, and the trap trundled off down the street with its passengers.

As soon as I felt the cab had driven a safe distance, I rushed to the door of No. 221b (dragging a very disgruntled Gladstone behind me,) and begged Mrs. Hudson to lend me a few shillings.

"What for, dear, if you don't mind my asking?"

"For a cab," I said, and then, noticing her slightly bewildered look at the dog at my feet, added, "Gladstone needs a rest."

"He is quite old now, I suppose," Mrs. Hudson said, reaching in to a drawer, and taking out a black velvet purse. "I remember he came here when Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson moved in, when he was only a pup. There you are, dear."

"Thank you," I said, as she deposited the coins in to my hand. "Oh, and Mrs. Hudson...What's the Albert?"

"Do you mean the Royal Albert Hall, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a frown. "It's a concert hall, in Kensington."

"Thank you!" I called over my shoulder, as I spotted an empty cab across the street, and ran to catch it (Poor Gladstone had probably never had to run so quickly in all his life!)

There were two things, I think, that made me follow Holmes and Watson on their mission with the Inspector – the first being that the prospect of watching a murder investigation sounded much more exciting than taking a leisurely stroll with Gladstone, before returning home to practice embroidery or some such with Mrs. Hudson, and the second being that I felt an absolute delight knowing that my actions would annoy Holmes.

When my cab finally pulled up outside the Royal Albert Hall (an astonishing, domed, red brick structure, adorned on the outside with the usual artistic, classical designs of white Greek or Roman figures,) I saw a small crowd of people gathered a short distance from the building (most likely curious onlookers,) and, flanking its entrance, a couple of London policemen in uniform. I paid my cabby, and dismounted from the cab with Gladstone, then began carefully making my way across the great, open space that surrounded the Hall, wanting to get closer than the onlookers, but making sure not to attract the attention of the police officers guarding the entrance...

"Miss Winchester?"

I spun round with a gasp to see Watson, Holmes and Lestrade standing on the opposite side of the street.

"Dr. Watson!" I said, attempting to sound surprised, as the doctor came towards me with a bemused expression. "You startled me!" Holmes and Lestrade followed close behind him, Lestrade whispering something to Holmes, which, although it brought a smile to the Inspector's face, did not at all seem to amuse detective.

"What are you doing here?" Watson asked.

"Oh, just walking Gladstone," I said, reaching down to scratch the distinctly unimpressed looking dog between his ears. "I just happened to come this way."

"Quite remarkable," Holmes said, and, in answer to my questioning look, added, "For you to have arrived in Kensington so quickly on foot."

I fought down the rush of blood that instantly tried to colour my face and show my guilt, and instead did my best attempt at a Holmes-impersonating stare. Lestrade chuckled to himself.

"Mr. Holmes, I rather think that one or two of the constables would like to be introduced to your cousin," he said, clearly taking wicked enjoyment in the moment, "if that would be fine with you?" Holmes's jaw tightened.

"I am not the young lady's chaperone, Lestrade," he said with a sniff. "Watson, seeing as you invited Miss Winchester to stay, you may be the judge as to what is best for her. I, meanwhile, must examine the scene of the crime." And with that, he walked, coolly past me, leaving me feeling chagrined.

"Well," Watson sighed, wearily, looking after his friend, "you may as well come in with us, Miss Winchester, seeing as you're here. Lestrade, if you would..?"

"Of course," said Lestrade with a grin, and Watson angrily took off after Holmes. I took the Inspector's offered arm, and suppressed a smile as he whispered to me, "Good show, miss, good show."

I left Gladstone with one of the constables positioned outside the entrance, and Lestrade led me in to the Hall, introducing me to several officers in uniform that were scattered through the theatre's corridors along the way (all of whom gave me the distinct impression that they were not at all fond of Holmes.) We eventually reached the doors to the auditorium, which Holmes and Watson entered ahead of us.

"Ah," said Lestrade, suddenly stopping. "No, I don't think..."

"It's alright, Inspector," I said, realising why he was so reluctant to take me in to the auditorium. "I've seen the dead before, I know what to expect."

Lestrade's eyes flickered, briefly towards the mourning locket around my neck, before he said, "Yes, but all the same, miss, it is a very unpleasant sight..."

"It takes a great deal to give me nightmares, Inspector," I said, firmly, fixing him with a determined stare; "believe me."

I think he would have protested further, but he could evidently see the resolve on my face, and reluctantly held the door open for me. I entered the cavernous auditorium, and made my way through the hundreds of seats in the stalls, towards the stage, where Holmes and Watson were now stood. I looked about me as I went, and thought what a strangely pretty place this was for something as grim as a murder.

I have to admit that I was not quite as prepared for the sight of the body as I had thought I'd been – so much so that I staggered a little, and Lestrade came rushing up to place a supporting arm behind me, but I brushed it away, and told him that I was not accustomed to fainting. The stage was awash with ruby red blood...

It was a gentleman, perhaps in his late forties, with a neat, well groomed goatee (obviously coloured,) which looked quite ridiculous on his large, round, and rather aggressive face (aggressive even in death.) He was very overweight, but wore the sort of clothes that an attractive young man might wear – a glossy black suit, with a waistcoat of silver satin, a sapphire blue, silk cravat, with a diamond pin, a grey top hat (which had fallen in to the lake of blood that surrounded its former owner, and was now ruined,) and several jewelled rings on his swollen fingers. The overall effect was one of a very rich, pompous man, and one could not help but feel that maybe he had deserved the scarlet bullet hole which was now in his forehead...But there was nothing he could have done to deserve the substantial chunk which had been blown out of the back of his head.

"Well, gentlemen?" Lestrade queried, hopping up on to the stage with Holmes and Watson, while neatly avoiding the blood (I stayed where I was, on the other side of the band pit, rather than getting any closer to the ugly corpse.)

"Death looks to have been instantaneous," said Watson, who was stood as close as he could get to the body without stepping in the blood, and peering down at it. "Temperature of the blood puts the time of death between twelve and two o'clock this morning."

"Who is the victim, Lestrade?" Holmes asked, looking not even the slightest bit disturbed at the sight of the bloody corpse. Lestrade looked stunned.

"You don't recognise him, Holmes?"

"No," said Holmes, circling the body, and examining it with keen, calculating eyes, "is there any reason why I should?" Lestrade sighed, a little sadly.

"Oh, well, I suppose he has let himself go a bit since the old days...His name's Ernest Moore."

Watson, who was now kneeling on the stage and taking notes, dropped his pencil.

"Oh," I said, more to myself than anyone else, "so he's an actor." The three men turned to look at me in surprise.

"You've heard of him?" Lestrade said with a frown. "You're a little young, aren't you?"

"I haven't heard of him," I said, aware that Holmes's eyes were on me, but deciding to ignore him. "There's a poster outside with his name on it. I think it was _'King Lear'_..." Holmes snorted.

"Quite obvious," he said.

"I didn't notice it..." Watson began, but Holmes quickly cut across him;

"Ah yes, Ernest Moore, I do recall the name. A brilliant Shakespearian actor, I believe?"

"Not just _a _Shakespearian actor, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said; "_The _Shakespearian actor! The finest and most talked about in the country, although that was quite a few years ago, before he got involved with the wrong crowd. Career's been waning since then, but this performance of _'King Lear' _was said to be the one to put him back on top."

"Pity he'll never get to do it," Watson said, shaking his head.

"Now, let me see," Holmes was still circling the body like a vulture, and it was at this moment that I noted his striking resemblance to a bird of prey, with his hooked nose, angular shoulders, and sharp, piercing eyes. "Curious...You say that his career had been waning, Lestrade?"

"Yes. He'd been out of work for some time before finally getting the part here at the Albert."

"Then where did he get the money for those clothes?" I wondered aloud. There was an odd silence, and I looked up to find Holmes staring at me in a most peculiar manner.

"Quite," he said, his voice bearing just a trace of annoyance, and I quickly bit my tongue.

"You see, Lestrade," Holmes continued, gesturing to the body; "Satin waistcoat, handmade shoes, a diamond tie pin, gold rings with amethysts and sapphires...Do these strike you as the garments of an out of work actor?"

"Well, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Moore did already have a considerable fortune. He was, after all, once the most famous actor in the country..."

"...And a bit of a gambler," Holmes said, producing a crumpled betting slip from the dead man's pocket. "Fenton's Boy, 2:20 at Ascot. Dear me. If this piece of poor judgement is anything to go by, Mr. Moore would have lost a considerable amount through his hobby."

"But Holmes," Watson interjected, "even I have the occasional flutter on the horses. How do you know Mr. Moore was a serial gambler?"

"Check his watch," I piped up from in front of the stage, then fell back in to silence at Holmes's frosty glare.

"Watson," Holmes said, serenely, "might I borrow your handkerchief?"

At the other end of the stage, I saw Lestrade grin as Holmes took Watson's handkerchief, and used it to pick up Moore's watch.

"You see, Watson?" Holmes said, holding out the watch for Watson to examine. "Pawn brokers marks. They appear on a couple of his rings, too. When considered alongside the betting slip, the reason for Mr. Moore having to pawn his jewellery is quite obvious."

"Yes," said Watson with a nod. "Thank you for drawing our attention to the watch, Miss Winchester."

I suppressed a smile as the calm and so composed Holmes almost spluttered with rage. After a moment, however, his face resumed its usual, steely expression.

"Seeing as he regained his watch, and was able to afford such expensive clothes, we can assume that Mr. Moore had an alternative source of income. Did Moore have any family, Lestrade?"

"Yes, his wife died some years ago, but they had a daughter. We have her address."

"Good," Holmes said, straightening up. "I've seen enough, I think. Who discovered the body?"

"Mr. Smith, the cleaner," said Lestrade, checking his notes. "He's backstage in one of the dressing rooms, if you..."

With a flick of his cane, Holmes strolled past Lestrade, and disappeared in to the wings, closely followed by Watson, and (after hurrying up on to the stage, and skirting around the body,) myself. As I hurried, excitedly after Holmes, I heard Lestrade sigh, wearily behind me, and say, "...want to have a word with him." 


	8. Chapter 7

Mr. Smith was a commonplace little man – slight, scrawny, with a rough, dusty brown face, small, swampy green eyes, a head of thick, silvery hair, and hands that looked as though they had seen much work. His clothes were old, but all very clean, and he sat on a chair in the dressing room, chatting to the supervising constable in a polite, friendly manner.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Smith," Holmes said as we entered the room, and he reached forward to shake the old gentleman's hand. "I am Mr. Holmes, and this is my colleague, Dr. Watson."

I stood, rather awkwardly in the doorway, as Holmes forgot me.

"I've already spoken to an Inspector, sir," Mr. Smith said, a little warily.

"No no, we are not affiliated with the police, Mr. Smith," Holmes said, seating himself opposite the old man, and removing his top hat. "We just wish to ask you a few private questions about your discovery of Mr. Ernest Moore's body."

Smith thought for a moment.

"Holmes," he said, pensively. "You're not Sherlock Holmes, the detective, are you? The one whose cases are always printed in the _Strand_?"

Holmes's chest puffed up, rather proudly; "Yes."

Smith's wrinkled old face lit up; "Very delighted to meet you, sir!" he said, enthusiastically. Then, he spotted me in the doorway. "And who, may I ask, is this charming young lady?"

"No one," said Holmes, thrusting his cane out in front of me as I went to shake Mr. Smith's hand. "Now, Mr. Smith, if you will? On the night of the murder, you were..?"

"Last night, sir? I was here, doing my job, sir."

"Yes, but at the actual time of the murder, where abouts were you in the theatre?"

"In this very room, sir," Mr. Smith said, his voice dropping to a keen whisper as he recalled the memory. "I was polishing the mirrors, you see, and at ten minutes past twelve, I heard..."

"How can you be sure of the exact time?"

Mr. Smith looked up from his chilling tale like a bubble had just popped around him, and said, "I know, sir, because my wife gave me a new watch for my birthday, and I'd been admiring it all day." Sure enough, a pretty little brass pocket watch, hung on a chain decorated with coins, dangled from the man's pocket. Holmes nodded;

"Very well, Mr. Smith, carry on."

"Well, I was just polishing the mirrors, when I heard an almighty bang come from the stage. At first, I thought something had just fallen over in the wings, but as I went to check, I smelled gun powder. I ran out on to the stage, and there was Mr. Moore, lying in a terrible pool of his own blood..." The old man shuddered, and crossed himself. "...I went near him, but I could see that he was already dead, his eyes were wide open. I felt sick. And then...And then, sir, I saw the demon that did it!"

Holmes and Watson both looked up, and I stepped closer, intrigued.

"You saw the murderer?" Holmes asked, leaning forwards.

"Yes, sir," Smith said, with a firm nod. "It was only for a few seconds, mind, but I saw him running away down the aisle. I would have caught him, sir, only the scoundrel was right at the end of the aisle, close to the doors, and I'm not as young as I used to be..."

"Of course. Did you see what this person looked like?"

"I'm afraid not, sir," Mr. Smith said with a sigh. "He was running away from me, and what's more, he wore a cloak. I couldn't even tell you if it was a man or a woman."

"I see. What colour was the cloak, may I ask?"

Mr. Smith paused for a moment, as though he thought he had misheard Holmes. Holmes, however, behaved as though the colour of a cloak was a perfectly logical thing to ask for in a murder inquiry.

"Dark, sir," Smith said with a frown, and I was also a little perplexed at Holmes's question. "Purple, I think."

"Good," said Holmes. "Do you know what time Mr. Moore entered the theatre, and for what reason?"

"I couldn't say, sir," Mr. Smith admitted. "The doors weren't yet locked, so he could have come in at any time."

"Did you clean up in the auditorium last night?"

"I did. I mopped the stage. I suppose I'll have to mop it again now, though..."

"And what time did you finish in there?"

"Half past eleven," Mr. Smith said, patting his treasured new watch.

"Then neither Mr. Moore, nor the murderer, could have entered the scene of the crime before half past eleven without you knowing they were there?" Holmes asked.

"No, sir. Nobody was in the auditorium when I left it to come back here, and as far as I was aware, there wasn't anyone in the entire building."

"I greatly value your wife's practicality in buying birthday presents, Mr. Smith. What did you do after you found Mr. Moore's body?"

"Well sir, I went to chase the rogue, but like I said, I realised I wouldn't catch him, so I stopped before I'd even got off the stage. I saw where the bullet had hit the wall behind Mr. Moore – it must have gone right through his head, poor man – so I got my penknife, dug it out of the wall for evidence – I knew the police would be able to tell whose gun killed him if they had the bullet – and then went as quickly as I could to fetch a policeman."

"That was me, sir," said the constable in the corner of the room.

"Do you still have the bullet, Constable?" Holmes asked, eagerly.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. Here it is." He reached in to his trouser pocket, and took out the tiny, lead object, and handed it to Holmes.

"It's from a sporting pistol, sir."

"Yes, I can see that," Holmes said, examining the bullet in the palm of his hand. "A small firearm, intended for indoor target practice..."

"Well, he was shot indoors," I said, but Holmes shot me a stern look, and I clamped my mouth shut.

"Thank you, Mr. Smith," he said, handing the bullet back to the constable, and getting up. "You have been most helpful."

"I'm glad, sir," Mr. Smith said with a smile. "And, if there's anything more I can do to help you catch this madman, you just let me know."

"Thank you, I'll bear that in mind." Holmes put on his hat, nodded to the old gentleman, and strolled out of the room, I thought with some haste.

Watson and I followed, but, as soon as the dressing room door was closed behind us, Holmes suddenly placed a hand on my arm. I jumped, and almost recoiled in horror, for not only was his grip firm and angry, but it seemed odd anyway to feel his hand, as I was starting to look at him rather as though he were some ancient museum exhibit, or an impressive painting in an art gallery – you could admire it from a distance, but it was far too important for you to touch it.

"Watson, I think we are finished here," he said, his voice communicating nothing of the anger that his grip so clearly expressed. "Perhaps you could hail us a cab outside? Miss Winchester and I will join you in a moment."

Watson looked, curiously between myself and Holmes, then apparently decided that he was better off out of the matter, and headed back in the direction of the auditorium. Holmes instantly yanked me to one side (despite his sinewy form, he had a remarkable strength,) and looked, furiously down in to my face.

"Do you think," he hissed, venomously, "that the scene of a murder is the right place to jest? Do you think it is your business to follow me around London in a cab? And don't even attempt to deny it!" he snapped, pointing a warning finger at me as I opened my mouth to do just that. "There is no other way you could have gotten here so soon after Dr. Watson and I did!"

For a moment, I was genuinely terrified. I just remembered all those times that Rowena had caned me, painfully, and I wondered if Holmes was going to box my ears. As I thought of Rowena, however, my old attitude towards her and her threats resurfaced, and I pulled a steely mask down over my face, made my eyes unwavering and unresponsive, and stood my ground, fighting down any faint glimmers of fear.

"I'll do as I please, Mr. Holmes," I said, coldly. "You said it yourself, you're not my chaperone. And, as you also said yourself, I'm quite used to beatings, so if you feel the need to slap me for my behaviour, then fine, I'll accept it. But it won't change a thing."

There was a pause. Then, Holmes suddenly released my arm, and drew back, as though he were retreating from some horrific sight. I was stunned. Had I imagined it, or had I truly seen a flash of horror in his deep, emotionless eyes before he had pulled away? Not horror at me, or something I had done; it looked more internal, as though he had suddenly stumbled upon some terrifying thought. I tried to figure out what it meant, but in a heartbeat, the look had completely vanished from his eyes, and he was his usual, cold and unresponsive self.

"Come along, Miss Winchester," he said, acting as though nothing at all had happened; and, with a brisk turn, he led the way back to the auditorium. As I followed him, however, I noticed, for the first time, a peculiar movement in his walk. He had a small, almost indistinguishable limp. Just like mine...


	9. Chapter 8

Unravelling the knotted thread that was Sherlock Holmes was an ambitious task to set oneself; but I swore, as I walked out of the front doors of the Royal Albert Hall, collecting Gladstone as I went, that I would get to the bottom of this little mystery. Holmes would go off on his case, and I would embark on my own, getting to the root of his dislike for me and, hopefully, changing his mind. For, rude and ungracious though he was, there was no doubting that he was a very brilliant man, and I felt intrigued by him. I realised that I wanted to like him, and, even worse, partially wanted him to like me, and I was thoroughly disappointed in myself for it!

As we left the Albert, Holmes suddenly stopped short of where Watson was waiting beside a cab, and dashed off to the right, towards the group of onlookers (It had dwindled in size by this time, as a fair few people had given up and left, but a handful of fiercely curious people, who seemed to have nothing better to do, still remained, muttering to each other, and craning their necks for a good view.) Lingering near the group of finely dressed men and women were a couple of ragged street boys, examining the onlookers, and clearly considering which pocket they should pick. At first, I thought Holmes had run over to stop them; but I was surprised to see him beckon the boys over to him, exchange a few words with them, and then hand the taller of the two some money. The boys nodded, and raced off, and Holmes walked back with a contented smile on his face.

We all four piled in to the cab – Holmes, Watson, and the weary dog and I – and set off for, as Holmes said to our cabby, '72 Primrose Hill Road.'

"Where's that, Holmes?" Watson asked, as Holmes knocked on the roof of the cab, and it juddered off along the cobbles.

"The address of Mr. Ernest Moore's daughter," said Holmes. "I got it from Lestrade. Now..." The detective leaned, keenly forwards in his seat, and steepled his fingers, his eyes aglow with all the excitement of a young boy at Christmas; "Here are the facts. Mr. Moore entered the theatre, for some unknown reason, sometime after half past eleven last night. We know that, as that was the time Mr. Smith left the auditorium to visit his mistress..."

"_Excuse me?" _I cried, almost throwing Gladstone off of my lap.

"All that about him polishing the mirrors in the dressing room!" Holmes said with a wicked smile. "Surely you noticed, Miss Winchester, that those mirrors had not been recently polished at all?" he added in a sardonic tone.

"_Maybe_ they hadn't been," I said, reasonably. "But I wouldn't go so far as to jump to the conclusion that that sweet old man had a mistress!"

"I never jump to conclusions, Miss Winchester," Holmes sighed. "I take it, then, that you also did not notice the smear of make-up just along his jaw line, nor the way in which he addressed you when you came in to the room? I thought it a little inappropriate, so I put him off with my cane. You see..." and at this point he looked at me, meaningfully, "...I do not think it is right to mistreat a lady." I realised what he was referring to, and I gave a small smile.

"I know...Thank you."

Watson, evidently deigning that this was the sign of a cease-fire between myself and Holmes, smiled, delightedly.

"So," he said, sounding bright and jolly; "You were listing the facts, Holmes?"

Holmes sprang forward in his seat again; "Yes...Sometime between the hours of half past eleven and ten minutes past midnight, Mr. Moore's murderer appeared on the scene. Did he follow him there? Did he arrange to meet him there?.."

"_Or," _Watson added, "was the murderer already there, perhaps stealing something, and Mr. Moore disturbed him, so the thief shot him with the pistol? It's just the sort of weapon a burglar would choose to carry with them, small and easy to hide..." Holmes grinned.

"That would be an excellent theory, Watson," he said, taking something out of his waistcoat pocket, "were this really the bullet that shot Mr. Moore."

Watson and I both gawped as Holmes held up the bullet.

"But I thought you'd given that back to the constable!" said Watson.

"So did I!" I agreed. "I saw you put it back in his hand!"

"Then the pair of you must learn to be more observant," Holmes said, almost like a school teacher handing out a scolding. "I'm surprised at you, Miss Winchester, you seemed before to be quite...Well, what I actually placed in old Morrison's hand was a sovereign, and he, in return, gave me the bullet. I gave him some information a while ago about a young man who was courting his daughter, which he found very useful."

"What do you mean," I said, getting back to the point, "when you say that's not really the bullet that killed Moore?" Holmes's eyes sparkled as he examined the tiny bullet, no bigger than a pepper corn.

"A clever trick," he said, almost admiringly. "The murderer must have plucked the original bullet from the wall, and replaced it with this one. Morrison alerted me to the fact when he said that it came from a sporting pistol. Though sporting pistols can wound, they are certainly not capable of nearly destroying a man's head, and then lodging the bullet in the wall behind...if you will excuse my graphic language, Miss Winchester...No, what killed Moore was a very powerful gun, with, I think, a quite different sort of bullet."

"So not just a simple robbery," Watson said, looking a little deflated.

"Who were those urchins you spoke to outside the Hall?" I pressed, uncaring for the old maxim that a woman should not ask too many questions.

"A couple of the Irregulars," Holmes explained. "I employ a team of some of London's street children as my informants – they find a few things for me, and be my eyes and ears around London, and I pay them. I was pleased to see them there; I've sent them off looking for any loungers who may have been outside the Albert between half past eleven and ten minutes past twelve last night, see if anyone saw the murderer entering and leaving. According to Mr. Smith, they were wearing a purple cloak, so that should stay in a few people's memories. Now, we so far have two possible motives for the murder – debt, and blackmail."

"Blackmail?" I gasped with a thrill.

"Certainly. Mr. Moore was an unemployed actor and an unlucky gambler, and yet he wore fine clothes, which were all new and recently bought. The address of his daughter is also a rather nice spot in Camden. How else could he be obtaining the money for such things?"

"Holmes," said Watson, sounding a little displeased, "it is unlucky to speak ill of the dead, and a very serious thing to accuse a man of being a blackmailer..."

"Quite right, Watson," Holmes said; "Which is why we are now visiting Mr. Moore's daughter for a character assessment of her father. As I said," he added with a glance at me, "I _never _jump to conclusions."

The cab drew to a hault a few minutes later, and we stepped out in to a quite different and rather pretty district of London. It was dotted with beautiful green trees, buzzed with the activity of coffee houses, and flower girls selling their buttonholes, and seemed itself just to be sitting in a sunny spot. Holmes led the way up to one of the posh, whitewashed townhouses, and rapped on the door with the lion's head doorknocker. He was right, I thought, Miss Moore certainly lived in a good house. How on earth had her debt-ridden father been able to afford it?

A nervous looking maid wearing black mourning armbands answered the door.

"Yes, sir?"

"Good afternoon," Holmes said, politely. "Is Miss Rebecca Moore at home?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but she won't want any visitors today. There's been a family bereavement..."

"Oh, for goodness' sake!" an irritable voice called from inside the house. "Just let them in, Sarah!"

The maid squeaked, and leapt aside, allowing Holmes to enter the house. I looked at Watson, who raised his eyebrows, and we both followed. The maid led us quickly in to a beautifully furnished drawing room, mostly French in design, with bay windows that let the sunlight stream in on to the cream, lamb's wool carpet (I looked down at the rather pretty carpet, and handed Gladstone's leash to the maid, not wanting him to tread his paws all over it.) A young woman in a fashionable, black and purple striped dress paced up and down the room, with her hands on her hips.

I have to admit that Rebecca Moore was not at all what I had expected. She was tall, and what some might call plain, but had a certain dark beauty about her, with her jet black hair, pulled back in to a tight knot, and her intelligent, fiery brown eyes, that positively shot daggers at Holmes as he entered the room. Unlike the maid, she, surprisingly, was not dressed for mourning (Her dress was dark, but one got the impression that she often wore dark colours, and she wore no veil or black armbands, and bore not the slightest trace of crying.)

"Yes?" she snapped at us. "You'd better not be sent from Richards again, for if you are, I shall..!"

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Miss Moore," Holmes said, serenely, lifting his hat to her. "And this is my colleague, Dr. Watson, and...Miss Harriett Winchester, from America." (He didn't mention that I was his cousin, but I was pleased that he had at least remembered me this time.) "I am awfully sorry to trouble you at this difficult time, but we have a few questions concerning your father's death."

"Are you the police?" Miss Moore asked, her whole manner suddenly changing, and becoming far less hostile.

"No, but we do converse with them occasionally. If you would, miss?" Holmes reached in to his coat pocket, and offered her his card. Miss Moore took it a little uncertainly, and examined it closely.

"A private detective?" she said, glancing up at Holmes.

"A _consulting _detective, miss," Holmes corrected her. "I assist the police with their inquiries. At present, I am assisting them with their investigation in to the murder of your father." Miss Moore glanced, suspiciously at the card again, then looked up with what could almost have been considered a smile.

"Have a seat," she said, gesturing to the settee. We moved across the room together, and sat down, with Miss Moore seating herself on the chaise longue opposite.

"I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Holmes" she said, apologetically; "But my father's debt collectors have been calling, and I have to be firm with them."

"Surely, you have a gentleman to stand up for you, miss?" Holmes said, pointing to the engagement ring on her left hand. "Although I see you are soon to be 'madam'?"

"Oh, yes," said Miss Moore, admiring the pretty emerald on her finger. "But I don't like to bother him with such things, Mr. Holmes. I can look after myself."

"Very good," I said, admiring Miss Moore's attitude. She smiled, sweetly at me.

"Ahem," Holmes coughed. "Pardon me, Miss Moore? We'd like to ask you a few questions about your father."

"Of course," Miss Moore said, casually. "Ask anything you wish, sir."

"Thank you. Firstly, I see you're not in mourning?"

Miss Moore looked up with a sharp gaze, and I saw her grip the chaise longue, tightly.

"That's not a question about my father, sir!" she objected, hotly.

"It is related to your father, miss, and says a great deal about his character, seeing as his own daughter does not mourn for him."

There was a ringing pause. Sharp eyes met sharp eyes as Holmes and Miss Moore stared at each other, and I thought that they were fairly evenly matched. In the end, however, there could only be one winner, and Holmes, I could already tell after having spent just one day with him, was not often the one to lose; "Although I cannot imagine that you had a great deal of affection for a man who was such a brute."

Instantly, the fierce glass panes that Miss Moore had drawn up over her eyes shattered, and the sweet, vulnerable flower hidden behind them peered out. She reached up to touch her face, and Holmes smiled, sadly, and shook his head.

"It is almost, but not quite, completely covered with make-up, miss," he said. I stared, intently at Miss Moore's face, trying to find what Holmes had evidently spotted, and noticed a faint, purple tinge at the corner of her right eye.

Trembling, the admirable lady stood up, and went over to a cabinet on the other side of the room. She bent over a drawer with her back turned to us, and Watson and I looked, expectantly at her, while Holmes, I noticed, stared rather rigidly at the floor. Eventually, she turned, and I flinched, and clasped a hand over my mouth. The poor girl stood before us, holding a make-up stained handkerchief, and bearing a hideous black eye on her proud and dignified face.

"It doesn't hurt me, doctor," Miss Moore insisted, as Watson leapt off of the settee to examine the bruise. "The pain faded a few days ago, it doesn't bother me now." Then, she looked at Holmes with an iron spirit in her eyes. "Yes, he was a brute, Mr. Holmes. He struck me just the once, but he was a drunk, and more interested in money and playing cards than he ever was with me. He played the great hero and the gentleman on stage, but in his own life, he was terrible man, a selfish man, and I shan't miss him."

I felt like standing up, and applauding her until the walls fell down, but Holmes continued speaking to her (still, I couldn't help but notice, without looking at her bruised face.)

"Miss Moore, you say your father played cards and was obsessed with money. Was he a serial gambler?"

"Oh yes, most definitely!" Miss Moore said, vehemently. "And he never won a penny with it, not once in his life!"

"Then how could he afford the expensive clothes he wore, the rings? And what about this house?"

Miss Moore bristled.

"This is my house, sir," she said, her chin thrusting up with pride. "I bought it myself with the money my mother left for me in her will, for when I turned twenty-one."

"I see," said Holmes, thoughtfully, looking about him. "A beautiful house. Are you well-off now?"

"My grandfather grants me an allowance," Miss Moore said, and I could tell from her face and from her manner of speech (aswell as from the many obvious signs of wealth that were around me,) that her grandfather was a rich man, and obviously doted on his granddaughter. "But I shan't need it anymore soon, as I shall be married."

Holmes nodded, pensively; "Did your father pester you for money?"

Miss Moore's jaw moved as though she were chewing her tongue.

"Often," she said, shortly. "I helped him once, out of a sort of duty, I suppose. But after that I had no sympathy for him, and neither did Matthew..."

"Matthew?" Holmes asked. Miss Moore blushed.

"Matthew Blackburn, my fiancé," she said. "It was he who my father owed money to. They played a game of cards together, and Father lost heavily, as always. He came stumbling over here in the middle of the night, drunk, with Matthew trying to stop him. That was how we met. I paid off Father's debts that one time, but after that I refused, and Matthew wouldn't allow me to anyway."

"Rather strange circumstances for an engagement," Watson said, smiling at the girl. "I can't imagine what your father must have thought." Miss Moore smiled, darkly.

"He protested a great deal, told all sorts of lies about Matthew," she said; "But I knew it was all about the money. He thought that Matthew was the one who had persuaded me not to make any more allowances for him, but I chose to do so myself."

"A woman with more sense than an entire roomful of men thrown together!" I laughed, then flushed as I realised I had been rather bold. To my relief, however, Miss Moore gave a bark of laughter, and Holmes and Watson made no comment.

"Where do you think your father got those clothes from, Miss Moore," Holmes asked, "considering that he was so destitute?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, Mr. Holmes, although I wouldn't be surprised if he stole them."

"Would you be surprised if he blackmailed someone for money?" Holmes queried.

Miss Moore huffed; "Certainly not!"

Just then, there came another frightened squeak from the maid in the hallway, and a bang as the front door was thrown open. A moment later, a young man came running in to the room, with the maid stumbling after him, and feebly protesting. He looked to be one of those careless, roguish types, with long dark hair, down to the ends of his ears, and only partially tamed with lime cream, and dressed in a beautifully cut, grey suit, with an opal pin on his black cravat. Miss Moore quickly pressed the make-up stained handkerchief to her eye.

"Rebecca!" the man cried, rushing over to her. "Dear God, I've just read about it in the paper...What's happened here?" He prised the handkerchief away from her eye, and looked, accusingly at the three of us. "Who are these people, Rebecca?"

"It's alright, Matthew," Miss Moore said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "They have nothing to do with it. They're helping the police with their inquiry in to...You have heard, haven't you?"

"On the train," the man said, turning white. "Shot! Is that right, Rebecca, he was shot?"

"It is," Miss Moore said with a nod. "Father was a man with too many enemies. I suppose one of them caught up with him. Mr. Holmes," she added, looking across at Holmes, "this is Matthew Blackburn, my fiancé. Matthew, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, and Miss Harriett Winchester. Mr. Holmes is a detective."

"Not _the _Sherlock Holmes?" Mr. Blackburn said, crossing the room to shake Holmes's hand. "I say, sir, if I hear right, we'll have Mr. Moore's killer in gaol by supper time if you're on his tail! And I hope you do find him, sir, because I'd like to thank the fellow!"

"As would I," Miss Moore said. Holmes smiled, rather bitterly.

"You shouldn't express your feelings too forcefully, Mr. Blackburn," he warned, "this _is_ a murder investigation. Although I fully understand your feelings, considering how cruel Mr. Moore was to your fiancée. It was he who gave her that unsightly bruise."

"The coward!" Mr. Blackburn snarled, putting his arms around Miss Moore. "Rebecca, why didn't you send for me?"

"I didn't want to worry you, dear."

"Excuse me," Holmes said, awkwardly getting between them. "Mr. Blackburn, you have been away, I take it?"

"In Cornwall, visiting my parents. My father retired over there, spends his days fishing."

"Ah, a pleasant pastime in an equally pleasant spot. I myself hope to retire to the country one day to keep bees." (I almost burst in to laughter at this, for the thought of Holmes spending a docile life in the country as an amateur bee keeper seemed quite ludicrous to me. In fact, it seems quite ludicrous to me still, even as I sit at the writing desk in his Sussex cottage, where he used to sit, gazing out of the window at his much cared for hives.) "Well, Miss Moore, Mr. Blackburn, we shall not keep you any longer. I shall keep in touch with you over the progress of the case, if you so wish?"

"By all means, Mr. Holmes."

"Excellent. Miss Winchester here shall visit you every other evening, if you would not mind that, Miss Moore?"

"I'll do what?" I said, looking up at Holmes in amazement.

"Of course not," Miss Moore said with a smile. "I think I'd enjoy a little company every now and then." I was still staring, bemused at Holmes, but his stern look and quick nod prompted me to agree to the plan.

"Very well, then," said Holmes, tipping his hat to the couple. "Good day Miss Moore, Mr. Blackburn."


	10. Chapter 9

"There is frankly nothing more exciting than to have a case with an overabundance of obviousness," Holmes said, gleefully, as we made our way down the front steps of the house. "It means that the real, much more complex answer is buried deep somewhere."

"Why am I visiting Miss Moore every other evening?" I asked, peevishly, carrying Gladstone in to the waiting cab. "I thought you said I was in your way?"

"There is no harm in keeping an eye on a suspect, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, after directing our cabby to take us back to Baker Street. "Indeed, your presence in Miss Moore's home could prove quite useful. Women often open up much more easily to other women."

"Holmes!" Watson said, sounding shocked. "You suspect that poor, shamefully mistreated young lady of being a murderer?"

"Watson, I'm afraid that your attitude towards the fairer sex rather blinkers your vision," Holmes said with a frustrated sigh. "Women can be cold; women can be calculating; women can be devious;" (here he shot a glance at me, and I blushed crimson red,) "and they can most certainly be vengeful. Did you not note Miss Moore's fiery disposition? I believe her most capable of killing a man she hated as much as her father."

"Well, what about that fiancé of hers?" Watson asked. "He could easily have been lying about not being in town on the night of the murder. Miss Moore might not have known a thing about it..."

"No," I put in, "he really was in Cornwall, doctor. There was fresh sand around the soles of his boots, wasn't there, Holmes?" I looked at him, rather hopefully, but he seemed to barely acknowledge my words.

"I think Mr. Blackburn is of little concern, Watson," he said. "However, I by no means meant that Miss Moore was our main suspect. You remember she said that her father was a man with too many enemies? Mr. Moore undoubtedly would have owed a great deal of money to a great many people through his gambling habit, and it is not unheard of for such a thing as murder to be committed over unpaid debts. And we must not forget about the possibility of a blackmail victim, come to silence his tormentor. No, Watson, as I said, this case has an overabundance of obviousness – so many suspects and motives, that they all tangle their threads together in a great knot. We must find the end of our golden thread, like Theseus, and let it lead us to the centre of this maze!"

Suddenly, Holmes threw open the door of the moving carriage, and leapt out with all the energy and sure-footedness of a cat, landing, deftly on the cobbles, and hurrying away down the street. I thrust my head out of the door, completely taken aback, and stared after his retreating figure.

"It's alright, Miss Winchester," Watson said, summoning me back on to my seat, and closing the door; "He does that sometimes. Where he might be going, I haven't the foggiest, but he'll have some reason. He'll probably be back by nightfall."

And indeed he was. I had spent the remainder of the day curiously examining the many strange and wonderful souvenirs in Holmes's case museum (I found an extraordinarily beautiful pearl in a little, velvet lined box, a framed newspaper cutting about a champion racehorse by the name of Silver Blaze, and a box of notepaper, all scribbled over with what appeared to be lines of dancing stick figures,) and had just sat myself down in the sitting room to read something, when the front door sounded downstairs. Watson, who was sitting in his armchair beside the fireplace, with a whisky and soda in hand, got up and went out on to the landing.

"Holmes?" he called down the stairs. A few moments later, Holmes came bounding up the stairs, and strolled in to the sitting room, and I quickly hid the little book that I had been reading from view.

"I have had a very insightful afternoon," Holmes said, dropping down in to his armchair. "I visited Richards, the debt collector that Miss Moore mentioned during our visit this afternoon, and who are stationed conveniently just around the corner from the house that Mr. Moore has lived in for the past fifteen years. Apparently, Mr. Moore had placed numerous bets through them on races and the like, and owed them the substantial sum of £400."

"£400!" Watson almost choked.

"Indeed. However, the Richards family themselves seem in need of money, so I doubt that they would have killed off their most prized customer – they would much rather that the dead man was still alive in order to pay his debts."

"Well, that leaves us with Miss Moore," I said, gazing in to the fire in deep thought. "Or that mysterious blackmail victim, of course, assuming there really was one."

"There most certainly was one," Holmes said, reaching beneath his jacket, and bringing out an envelope. "Mr. Moore did not have the chance to seal and post this letter before his death."

"Holmes!" Watson almost shrieked. "Where did you get that?"

"How I obtained it is not important, Watson," Holmes said, although his whole manner screamed 'theft'. "What _is _important, however, is that it is a threatening note, signed with Mr. Moore's initials, demanding money, and apparently not for the first time. Come here."

Watson and I leaned over Holmes's chair, and, by the light of the flickering fire, read the words that were scrawled on the piece of foolscap in deep, burgundy ink;

£100 will buy my silence this time. Send me the money, or I shall produce the Flower.

E.M.

"Who's it addressed to?" I asked, breathlessly.

"There we hit a bit of a snag," Holmes said, turning over the envelope. It was unstamped, and without an address or name. Mr. Moore had – much to the convenience of the person who could well have been his murderer – apparently decided to leave those until later (not realising, of course, that he would later be shot in the head.)

"What on earth is 'the Flower'?" Watson wondered aloud, pointing out the bizarre and seemingly rather feeble threat.

Holmes sighed, and got up from his chair, walking over to the mantelpiece, and taking down a couple of pipes from his pipe wrack (his usual black clay one, and a smaller corn cob one.)

"That is what we must find out tomorrow," he said, comparing the two pipes, and eventually deciding on the corn cob. "I thought I might visit the club that Mr. Moore frequented, where he and Mr. Blackburn played cards. I found the address amongst his papers when I found the blackmail note, and thought it might be useful..."

"Amongst his papers?" Watson spluttered. "Holmes, you didn't break in to..?"

"Not now, Watson, I'm tired. Why don't you ring Mrs. Hudson for supper, while I take a nap?"

Watson opened his mouth to protest, but was thwarted by Holmes's dismissive and infuriatingly demure attitude, and so grudgingly left the room to ask Mrs. Hudson to prepare supper. Taking a pinch of tobacco from the Persian slipper, Holmes went to light his pipe, but apparently could not find a match. I noticed a box sitting on the side table, and offered it to him. As he took it from me, however, I noticed his eyes fall on the pocketbook I had been reading, and which I had thrust in to the gap between myself and the arm of the settee when he had entered the room.

"Is that one of my monographs?" Holmes asked, gesturing to the book with his pipe. I ducked my head in order to hide my rose-coloured cheeks, and placed the book on my lap.

"Yes," I said, opening its cover, and reading its somewhat overly grand title; "_The Book of Life."_

"Have you any comment to make on it?"

I chewed over my words for a moment; "It's very...heavy going."

"Such things need to be," Holmes said, taking a puff of his pipe. "You could benefit from reading my monographs, Miss Winchester, so as to fine-tune your own deductive abilities. I fancy you could be quite good if you applied yourself a little more." I looked up, feeling slightly singed by his words.

"Am I not applying myself?" I asked, indignantly. Holmes shot me a small smile.

"You see," he said, pointing at my face with the end of his pipe; "There is your problem. I am afraid that your distinct lack of control over your emotions rather hinders you as a logical thinker. You are angry with me now, so you are blinded as to your faults. When we first met Mr. Smith, you were taken in by his outward appearance of a pleasant and respectable elderly gentleman, and so did not even consider observing him properly, which meant you were given a false impression of his character."

"That hardly mattered!" I protested.

"It did in the case of Miss Moore, however," Holmes said. "You accepted the strong and fiery temperament with which she presented us as fact; you did not consider that it was all just a mask behind which to hide her vulnerability..."

"It's not healthy to shut away emotions like that," I said, looking at him, meaningfully. "It was exactly what Rowena wanted me to do, but I didn't give in, not even when she tried to beat all the resistance out of me. _I _didn't become completely cold and dead inside!"

Holmes stared at me, and as he stared, I noticed, once again, that tiny, momentary flash of horror cross his eyes. I simply sat and stared back, arms folded. If Holmes wanted me to learn how to see past the facades that people adopted in order to conceal their secrets, then I had found the perfect practice subject.

"Perhaps I was wrong?" he said, finally, with a dismissive sniff. "Perhaps you don't have as much potential as I first thought?"

"Or perhaps I have a lot more?" I suggested, making my eyes as piercing as possible.

With what I could almost have sworn to be a shudder, Sherlock Holmes then turned on his heel, and marched through the connecting door to his bedroom, shutting it, firmly behind him.


	11. Chapter 10

I went up to bed that night to find that Mrs. Hudson had been very busy whilst I had been sat down at supper with Dr. Watson. All of Holmes's keep-sakes had been pushed to the sides of the room, so that they balanced, crookedly on top of each other, like tall, spindly towers, making room for a small bed, complete with a mound of blue blankets, which been set up in the middle of the floor. The old sofa which I had previously slept on had been moved to the back of the room, as had the chest of drawers that my clothes were stored in, which now had a porcelain jug and wash basin and a vase of blue hollyhocks placed on top of it. The room had also, I was pleased to see, been given a thorough dusting. I smiled to myself as I settled down in bed that night, for it looked like Holmes wasn't going to get his way after all; I wasn't going to be moved on any time soon.

I have never been a very heavy sleeper, and, although my sleep was peaceful and dreamless that night, I awoke very suddenly in the early hours of the morning to the sound of soft footsteps creeping along the hall. I listened, intently for a moment, making sure that the sound was not just a waking dream. The footsteps were ever so delicate, but definitely there, and I could hear the vague noise of someone shuffling about in the bathroom. This would not, ordinarily, have been a particularly strange noise to hear in a house in the middle of the night, but there was something odd about it that I could not put my finger on. I threw off the pile of blankets that Mrs. Hudson had put on my bed, and quietly stood up. The windowless room was pitch dark, so I had to feel my way to the door, being careful not to knock over any of Holmes's keep-sakes. When I reached it, I pressed my ear to the wood, and listened, sharply. You can tell a great many things about a person from their step – this person, I could tell, was up to something, and was taking every precaution not to be heard. I could also hear the faint clinking of glass bottles, and the sound of compacts snapping shut. The person was rifling through the bathroom cabinet.

Slowly, I turned the door knob, and opened the door just an inch. The hallway was dark, but a natural dark, so there was more visibility than in my room. I made out a dim figure stepping out of the bathroom, and putting on a scarf. The angular silhouette of the shoulders and the distinctive shape of the head told me that it was Holmes. Deigning that he was going somewhere (and probably in disguise too,) I softly closed the door again, and made to hurry over to my chest of drawers; but as I did so, I crushed something under my foot. I froze, waiting to see if Holmes had heard the noise. There was a pause outside in the hallway, and I heard Holmes's distinctive step approaching my door. I held my breath, waiting for the door to open, but it didn't; Holmes was merely listening outside the door. I made not the slightest move, and only allowed myself to breathe again when I heard Holmes stepping away from the door.

Crouching down to see what I had stepped on, I found that it was a cardboard box of candles with a set of matches, which Mrs. Hudson must have left for me. I lit a candle, and could finally see where I was going. I went to my chest of drawers, and dug out the black, lace covered gown which I had worn to Father's funeral (Black seemed a very appropriate colour for a secret, midnight voyage.) I hastened in to the dress, and then tied my hair back in to a simple ponytail with a black ribbon (not the usual manner in which I dressed my hair, but I found, as I looked in to the mirror by candlelight, and saw my orange curls trailing down my back, that I rather liked it,) and put on some boots. I completed my semi-disguise with one of the hats that Mrs. Hudson had given to me – a black satin one, with a wide, slanting brow, that partially obscured my face, adorned with a white rose.

Blowing out my candle, I crept over to the door again, and peered out. Holmes was gone from the landing, but I could hear him softly treading down the second flight of stairs, towards the front door, and I swiftly but silently followed. I waited for him to leave the house before I made my way down the second staircase, so there was absolutely no chance of him seeing me; then, I went to Mrs. Hudson's cupboard, borrowed her black woollen shawl and her black velvet gloves, and went out. I looked up and down Baker Street, and spotted Holmes's distinctive walk heading away along the pavement. He was dressed, from what I could tell from behind him, in a rather seedy looking, shiny black frockcoat, and carried with him a crystal-topped cane. He did not take a cab, but walked, confidently for what I would guess to be about an hour, weaving through the dimly-lit streets, and all the while unaware that I was just a short distance behind. It was almost exciting.

I began to slightly regret my decision to follow Holmes, however, when he led me in to a rather dingy little district of London, which I later learned was Soho. It was littered with gin bars and gambling dens, and the streets seemed to be crawling with ragged little women, peculiarly dressed young men, and scarlet-lipped girls, wrapped in silk shawls, and dripping with feathers and beads. It was all too obvious what _they _were. I trailed Holmes to a brightly lit club, sandwiched between a gin bar and a group of those exotically dressed women, with tobacco smoke almost pouring out of its windows, and the sound of a badly played piano coming from inside. I couldn't fathom what Holmes was doing there, until I saw the ace of spades that was painted on the wooden sign that swung above the club door. This, then, must have been the place where Ernest Moore and his daughter's fiancé, Matthew Blackburn, played cards.

I hung back on the edge of a shadowy little alleyway, watching for Holmes's exit from the club. I did not have to wait very long, as he emerged about twenty minutes later, staggering around, as though drunk. He swayed over to the group of women that stood to one side of the club door, and tapped one of them on the shoulder, perhaps the youngest in the group. Her chestnut brown hair was long, thick and lustrous, and adorned with a large black bow, and she wore a dress of sapphire blue satin, which glittered with black beads. A black, silver spangled shawl was draped over her shoulders, and she held an ebony cigarette holder in one, black-gloved hand, which she puffed at occasionally in a careless fashion. Beneath her bold, gaudy make-up was a feminine, heart-shaped face, and I think she would have been considered a pretty girl, had she not ruined herself with so much lip colour and rouge.

The girl walked with Holmes a little distance away from the group, and greeted him with the dazzling smile and courtesy with which she doubtless treated all her customers. As Holmes spoke, however, his drunken attitude suddenly evaporated, and he began speaking to her in a very serious fashion. The girl's smile slid from her face, and she made to dash back to the group of women by the club door. With a burst of recklessness, I ran out, and seized her by her wrist, pulling her back to Holmes.

"Git out of it!" the girl hollered, trying to claw my hand away.

"Miss Winchester?" Holmes said behind me, sounding the most confused I had yet heard him.

I turned and looked at him, ready to explain my actions, but found myself stunned in to silence by his appearance. Beneath the shiny, scarlet-lined frockcoat was a gold-buttoned waistcoat, and a scarlet silk cravat, and his top hat was adorned with a bright red rose. It was far from the usual, quiet primness with which Holmes normally dressed himself, but certainly helped him to blend in on the cheap and flamboyant streets of Soho. For the first and only time in my life, I saw Sherlock Holmes blush.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"I could ask you the same question!" I said. Holmes's colour deepened, and he pointed out the struggling girl, whom I still had a tight grip on.

"I think we have a new lead with this Moore case," he said. "Tell this young lady your name."

"I ain't sayin' nuffin!" the girl spat, still desperately trying to pull away from me. "Let me _go_!" Reaching in to his coat pocket, Holmes approached her, and took out a few notes.

"You'll be paid handsomely," he said, showing her the money; "_if _you tell us the truth."

The girl stopped protesting, and looked, uncertainly between myself, Holmes, and the money in Holmes's hand. Finally, she took the notes from Holmes, and counted them, suspiciously.

"What d'you want?" she demanded with narrowed eyes.

"I'd like you to come with us, and tell us everything you know about two gentlemen by the names of Ernest Moore and Matthew Blackburn," Holmes said. "You know them?"

"I might do."

"We _know_ you do."

"How?" I asked Holmes, bewildered. "What's she got to do with it?" Holmes turned to the girl, as she stuffed the money in to her corset.

"What do you call yourself?" he asked her again.

"Flower," the girl replied.


	12. Chapter 11

**Note from Agatha: Believe it or not, it was originally my intention to write a simple K rated story. Then the prostitute theme just appeared out of nowhere!...**

* * *

Flower sat, jauntily on the settee in the front room of No. 221b, alternating between taking sips of coffee, and puffs of tobacco.

"So this is the Flower that Moore's note was referring to?" asked a dishevelled looking Watson (who had been knocked up out of his bed at the unholy hour of four in the morning.)

"Indeed," said Holmes, taking off his top hat, and plucking the ridiculous rose from its band. "Of course, Mr. Moore, being an actor, felt the need to make his note sound unnecessarily dramatic, and nearly put me off the scent. However, when I visited the club in Soho tonight, the barman told me that Mr. Moore and Mr. Blackburn were often accompanied in their visits by a...'Lady of the Evening', who went by the name of Flower."

"Mr. Moore liked 'avin a pretty girl sit on 'is lap, sir," Flower said with a wicked grin. "Cheered 'im up, seein' as 'e never seemed to 'ave any luck with the cards."

"And did Mr. Blackburn ever require any 'cheering up'?" Holmes asked. Flower's grin grew wider still.

"Not particularly, sir," she said demurely. " 'e was a dab 'and at it, never lost much...Although 'e _did _ask for a bit of comp'ny a few times."

" 'Company', in the suggestive sense of the term?" Holmes said. Flower fondled with the bow in her hair, and gave a small, soft laugh.

"Yes," she said, almost proudly. "Quite a few times." I could see Watson standing behind Holmes's chair, looking rather ill.

"And Mr. Moore?"

At this, Flower looked up with a violently indignant expression.

"What d'you fink I am?" she barked. "We've got standards, even in our profession! 'e was too old, 'e never would've stood a chance!"

"And could never afford your prices, no doubt," Holmes said, quietly, forcing me to hide an imprudent giggle behind my coffee cup. "I don't suppose Mr. Blackburn ever offered you something more, miss, such as an engagement?"

"Oh, 'eavens, no," Flower said with a wave of her hand. "It was all just 'armless fun..."

"Not so harmless to Mr. Blackburn's fiancée!" Watson said, sharply. Flower paused.

"Beggin' y' pardon?" she said, in barely more than a whisper. The atmosphere in the room shifted significantly, and everyone looked up (even Gladstone, who was sitting on my lap, like a great, leathery lump.)

"You did not know that Mr. Blackburn was engaged to be married?" Holmes said, curiously.

"_No!_" the furious Flower said, slamming down her coffee cup. "It's like I said, sir, we've got standards! I never would've gone wiv 'im if I'd known 'e was betrothed! Normally, it's just the young bachelors we entertain; boys from the university, y'know, no one wiv any strings attached..."

"You stick by your morals, Miss Flower, even in your dubious profession," Holmes said, but I think it was more of an interested statement, rather than a sign of admiration.

" 'e's made me in to a common tart!" Flower seethed. "A common tart, who'd do owt for a shilling, and what's more, e's shamed that girl of 'is!"

"Then perhaps you'd like to give her back her honour?" said Holmes, placing his fingertips together in an intriguing fashion. Flower looked at him with a frown.

"What d'you mean, sir?"

"Miss Rebecca Moore is a fine woman," Holmes said, taking up his notebook, and writing something down. "Would you wish to see her married to a whoring husband for the rest of her life?"

"No, sir, of course not!"

"Then go to this address," Holmes said, tearing a piece of paper out of his notebook, and handing it to Flower, "and tell Miss Moore the truth."

"_What?_" I cried, causing Gladstone to jump off my lap with a protesting grunt.

"Holmes!" said Watson, looking almost as horrified as Gladstone. "Isn't that just a tad brutal?" Holmes looked utterly confused.

"Surely, it is for the best, Watson?" he said, looking at his friend. "Can we live this lie, and face Miss Moore at the culmination of this case, knowing that the man she is to marry has been untrue to her? Can we let her go willingly in to a marriage where she is not fully respected and appreciated?"

"It sounds as though your opinion of women might be improving, Holmes," I said, repressing a smile at his words. Holmes's jaw stiffened.

"It is a shameful way to treat a lady," he said, a little defensively. "You already know that I do not stand for that, Miss Winchester. I would not be a gentleman if I did."

"You are a gentleman, sir," said Flower, standing up, and dropping Holmes a polite, if unpractised curtsey. "I'll visit the poor girl at first light, though I doubt I'll git away wivout a chiding meself. Still, at least that little toerag'll git what 'e deserves!"

"Goodbye, Miss Fl...I don't suppose you'd care to tell us your real name before you go?" The girl looked surprised, as if no one had ever cared to ask this before.

"Violet, sir," she said. "That's what my old mum named me."

"Good evening, Miss Violet," Holmes said, kissing her hand. With almost a blush on her face, the girl then walked out of the room, down the stairs, and out in to the street.

"Holmes, I still don't think that was entirely the right thing to do!" Watson said, walking around Holmes's chair to face him. "We have no right to meddle in people's private affairs; this will break Miss Moore's heart..!"

"It may well do, Watson," Holmes said, staring ahead of him, thoughtfully; "But I did it as much for Miss Moore's safety, as for her honour."

"Safety?" Watson said with a frown. "Holmes, whatever do you mean?"

"Isn't it obvious, Watson?"

"It was Blackburn who Moore was blackmailing!" I said, suddenly catching on to Holmes's train of thought.

"Precisely," said Holmes, with, to my great surprise, an approving nod at me. "Giving Blackburn the strongest present motive for Mr. Moore's murder."

"But he was in Cornwall, Holmes!" Watson said. "You said it yourself, you and Miss Winchester. He only arrived back in London the morning after the murder."

"Perhaps," Holmes said, his eyes blazing with concentration. "Or perhaps you were right the first time, Watson? Perhaps he _was_ lying? Is it possible that he could have been in Cornwall long enough to get the sand on his shoes, but arrived back in London earlier than he claimed?"

"We can find out," I said, feeling a thrill, as we seemed to be almost within touching distance of the answer to this mystery. "All we need to do is contact his parents; they live so far away, they can't possibly have heard of the murder. They wouldn't even think of lying to protect him."

"We must ask Lestrade to send a telegram to them in the morning, express delivery," Holmes said, jumping out of his chair. "And, Miss Winchester? I'd like you to visit Miss Moore tomorrow evening, she may need your sympathy." My stomach plummeted at the thought.

"But Holmes, I can't..."

"Would you prefer, perhaps, to stay here, and maybe take Gladstone for a walk instead?" (Gladstone grumbled, and trotted, quickly over to his basket, burying himself beneath the blanket.)

I reluctantly lowered my head; "No."

"Thank you."

Watson gave a great yawn.

"Well, this has been a most entertaining night," he said, blearily; "But I'm afraid I shall have to go back to bed. Goodnight Holmes, Miss Winchester."

Holmes and I both bade him goodnight, and the weary doctor trudged from the sitting room, and back up the stairs to his room. When I was sure that he was safely out of earshot, I finally asked the question that had been burning on my lips all evening;

"Holmes, what have you done to your eyes?"

Holmes looked up like a startled rabbit, clearly showing me the sharp, black pencil markings around his smoky grey eyes.

"Whatever do you mean, Miss Winchester?" he asked, his voice high with embarrassment.

"Your eyes, they look different. Are you wearing..?"

"It was quite necessary to wear it as part of my disguise for my excursion in to Soho, Miss Winchester, believe me." And with that, he disappeared in to his bedroom.

Due to our midnight adventures, we all slept rather late the next morning, and found ourselves breakfasting at a quarter past ten. Holmes, who, from what I had seen, had not eaten anything for the past two days, actually allowed himself a boiled egg and a cup of coffee, before he sat down in his armchair to read the _Times_.

"I'm afraid I have to be at my surgery for most of today," Watson said, getting up from the table, and brushing the crumbs from his moustache. "Will you be quite alright handling this case on your own, Holmes?"

"I shan't be alone, Watson," Holmes said, turning a page of his newspaper. "I have Miss Winchester to assist me." I felt a rush of pride, and Watson looked at me with a delighted smile. It had been a hard battle, but perhaps I had finally won the acceptance of Sherlock Holmes?

After Watson had departed for his surgery, and Mrs. Hudson had cleared away the breakfast things, I went over to Holmes in his armchair, and stood, expectantly next to him. He continued to read his paper for a moment, then slowly turned his head to look up at me.

"What?"

"What are we going to do?" I asked, eagerly. Holmes put down his paper, and stood up.

"I shall have to make a trip to Scotland Yard, and ask Lestrade to contact Blackburn's parents in Cornwall," he said, hastening in to his room, and washing his hands in the basin. "I shall have to warn him to be discreet in his message, however, so as not to frighten Mr. Blackburn's parents in to lying for their son. Even if they thought him innocent, they may still lie about his whereabouts in order to keep the police off of him."

"What do you want me to do?" I pressed, as he came back in to the sitting room.

"You," Holmes said, shrugging on his coat, "must stay here until about six o'clock, I should say, and then go to Miss Moore's house for dinner. She must have received the news of Mr. Blackburn's betrayal by now." My heart sank.

"So I'm to stay here all day, and then go and sit through the horrible experience of tending to a poor, heartbroken girl?" I said in disbelief.

"Exactly."

"But, _Holmes_," I protested, passionately; "Can't I be of any more use than that?"

"You are of great use to me, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, putting on his hat. "As I said, women talk more honestly with other women, and anything that Miss Moore says to you may be of use. The fact that you have both gone through similar experiences at the hands of a parent may make her even more open to you."

"But then, you could talk to her too..." I froze, and bit my tongue, cursing it for letting those words slip from my mouth.

Holmes had suddenly become very still and quiet. He gazed at the carpet, utterly calm and emotionless, but in that petrifying way, that suggested he might erupt at any moment.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Winchester?" he said, in a hoarse whisper. It was just like the first time I had met him – I was too frightened to speak.

"I...It's nothing, Holmes," I said, breathlessly, trying to think of some excuse to leave the room. "It's just...It's not important...I'll visit Miss Moore tonight..."

"No no, say what you were going to say, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, ever so calmly. "I believe you have observed something, have you not?" I just wished that he would look at me.

"No...Not anything...It was your walk, that's all," I finally stammered out.

"What about it?"

This was starting to feel painful. I didn't want to carry on, I wanted to run out of the room, and (for some reason,) burst in to tears, but I felt compelled to make my suspicions known, and see if they were right. I simply had to know...

"You said, when you first met me, that I limped because Rowena had whipped me so much," I began, my heart thudding, and creating a ringing noise in my ears. "But, you've got a limp too. So I thought that maybe...Maybe you went through the same thing as me?"

Holmes's long, white fingers wrapped around the black leather gloves he was holding, and twisted them, fiercely, until I could hear the leather creaking. He began to twitch noticeably, and he finally looked up at me. Despite my longing that he would before, I now desperately wished that he hadn't; for out of his grey eyes there poured all the crippling sorrow of the world, enough to drown a person's soul. There was so much emotion there, that it scarcely looked like Holmes at all. He turned away, and went over to the window, throwing up the sash, and gulping in the morning air. I tentatively approached him, and waited as he breathed, deeply at the window, not wanting to upset him further by pushing for an answer. He had trained himself never to show, and even to seldom feel emotion, and to have it suddenly rush up on him in an overwhelming wave would doubtless be disturbing for him – he needed a moment to accept it. After a minute or so, he straightened up again, and turned from the window. To my surprise, and somewhat to my dismay, his face had resumed its usual, steely expression, and every ounce of that sadness I had seen before had been forced away in to a dark corner, like it was never even there.

"I don't think so, Miss Winchester," he said, icily.

I wasn't going to put up with this anymore. I stormed over, and looked him directly in the face, even briefly meeting his eye for a moment.

"I think you did," I said, battling to keep my voice under control. "I think you're just like me and Rebecca Moore. I think you've put up a mask to hide everything that was done to you when you were young. Is that right?"

"It is not, and even if it was, you have no right..."

"I think that's why you hated me so much when I first came here. I was part of your family, the family that hurt you, and you thought they were all gone, apart from Mycroft. I suppose he went through the same thing, didn't he?"

"Enough..."

"And do you know what else? My grandmother told me that you and Mycroft didn't go to your own mother's funeral. She said that you'd barely known her, because you were both brought up so separate from her. Is that why you have such a low opinion of women? Because your mother abandoned you to the care of a nanny and a brutal father?.."

"_Hold your tongue!" _Holmes barked, glaring at me with such ferocity, that I instinctively took a defensive step back. And it was just as well that I did...

Glass shattered, something whistled through the air, and Holmes's hat was suddenly whipped off of his head, and went tumbling to the floor. For once, I saw the logical detective utterly taken aback. Bewildered, I looked out of the cracked window, and saw the glint of something reflecting the light in the window of the empty house directly opposite No. 221b. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, as I realised what it was...


	13. Chapter 12

"_Duck!_" Holmes bellowed, yanking me down on to the floor by my dress. I screamed as another bullet came shattering through the window over our heads, and zipped across the room, this time knocking a portrait of a Turk in a turban off of the wall.

"Mr. Holmes!" I heard Mrs. Hudson's voice calling, as I buried my face in the carpet. "What on earth is going..._What has happened to my window?"_

"Don't come in, Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes commanded. "Find a policeman, quickly! Tell them to search the empty house opposite!"

Although I could hear this conversation going on, it all seemed to be coming from across an ocean. All I could think of was to throw my hands over my head, and keep my eyes shut tight, like a child playing hide and seek under the bed; if you did that, it felt as though you were invisible, and nothing in the world could touch you...

"Miss Winchester, are you alright?" I felt Holmes's hand touch my arm, and a small, terrified squeak escaped me.

"_No!_" I said, rather pathetically, but I didn't care – Death itself was lingering outside our window!

"It's alright, they won't fire again," Holmes said, and I sensed him bravely standing upright. "There's a crowd gathered in the street, it's too much of a risk...No one is hurt up here! Do you hear me? No one has been hurt!"

I tentatively opened my eyes, and was greeted by the sight of Holmes's shoes. The next moment, Holmes grabbed me by my arms, and heaved me up on to my feet. He gave me a brief but stern look, silently telling me not to breathe another word on the subject of our conversation before the shots had been fired, and then went across the room, and began hunting about on the carpet. Just then, the rattled Mrs. Hudson appeared in the sitting room doorway, accompanied by a police officer in uniform.

"Oh dear, Miss Winchester!" she said, hurrying towards me as I dropped down in to Holmes's armchair, feeling as weak as water.

"Get some coffee for the lady, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said, still feeling about on the carpet. "And, if you would be so kind as to get my Calabash down from its case on the bookshelf, I think I need..." He suddenly spotted the police officer standing in the doorway, who was staring at him crawling about on the floor. "Morrison! What are you doing here? I thought I told Mrs. Hudson to send someone to the empty house opposite? The gunman may still be there!"

"It's alright, Mr. Holmes, Wilson's across the road searching the house. I thought I'd just come up to see if everyone was alright."

"Yes, yes, we're quite fine!" Holmes said, though I thought I noticed a hint of tension in his voice. "Morrison, from where you are, can you see a bullet anywhere on the floor?" Morrison glanced about.

"Is that it, sir?" he said, pointing to something. Holmes pounced on the small object, and his eyes glittered.

"Ha!" he said, joyfully, springing up. "And the other bullet must be..." He went to the wall where the fallen picture had previously been hanging, and plucked the second bullet from the indent it had made. He examined them both in the palm of his hand, and then proudly presented one to Morrison.

"I think you will find, Morrison," Holmes said, grandly, "that this is the kind of bullet that killed Mr. Ernest Moore at the Royal Albert Hall." Morrison held the bullet between his thumb and forefinger.

"No sir, it isn't," he said. "I remember, the bullet I gave you was much smaller. It was from a sporting pistol..."

"The bullet you gave me was not the bullet which killed Mr. Moore," Holmes explained. "It had been switched by the murderer, prior to our arrival. Now Morrison, go to your colleague, and see if he has caught the gunman. I believe that whoever has just attempted to take my life is also the murderer of Mr. Ernest Moore."

An astonished looking Morrison nodded, and darted down the stairs, passing Mrs. Hudson with her tea tray as he went. While Mrs. Hudson set down the tray, and poured the coffee, I stood up to test my trembling legs, and found that they were thankfully quite strong again (Strong enough to allow me to walk, anyway.) I went over to the broken window, and picked up Holmes's top hat from where it had fallen. My heart gave a terrible jolt when I saw the holes that had been pierced through its sides.

"Holmes..." I gasped, holding up the hat. "That first bullet went straight through your hat!"

"Yes," said Holmes, lighting his enormous Calabash pipe, and taking a few deep puffs. "I fancy that, had I not been wearing it, our fellow would have been able to aim a little more precisely at my head. We shall have to get him now, of course; I shan't be letting him get away with ruining my favourite hat! But come and sit down, have some coffee. You still look rather pale."

I had never been so grateful for a warm drink in my life. However, the tobacco smoke was positively pouring out of Holmes's Calabash like a chimney, and I found that I could not sit next to him on the settee without spluttering, violently, and so moved across the room with my cup.

"What do we do now?" I asked, as I sipped my coffee.

"We must get to Scotland Yard and get them to send that telegram to Blackburn's parents at once!" Holmes said, fiercely. "If he is the murderer, it would seem that he is attempting to silence me in order to save himself. We need proof that he wasn't in Cornwall on the night of the murder in order to convict him..."

"...Before he tries to kill you again," I added, with a thrill of horror. Holmes nodded, gravely, and then held up the second bullet between in thumb and forefinger.

"Do you know what this is, Miss Winchester?" he asked, with his pipe between his teeth.

"Well, it's a bullet, obviously," I said.

"Yes, but it is a very special kind of bullet. Take a look."

I reached over (without getting any closer to the settee and the cloud of vile tobacco smoke than I needed to,) and took the bullet from Holmes's hand, examining it, curiously. It was about the size of a small marble, and felt surprisingly heavy, and looked as though it had previously been a round shape, although it now appeared to have been squashed.

"It's a very odd one," I said, placing it back in Holmes's palm.

"It is a soft revolver bullet," Holmes said, gazing at the bullet with wonder. "A particularly nasty little thing. It leaves the barrel of the gun intact, but, due to its density, twists apart on impact, causing more damage to its target than any solid bullet."

"That's horrible!" I gasped, as a wave of nausea washed over me.

"Indeed. Very ingeniously designed things, they are particularly effective when used in an airgun, or a .45 caliber revolver..."

"Holmes," I said, severely; "Someone has just tried to kill you, and all you're interested in is the kind of God damn bullet they used?"

"Language, Miss Winchester, please," Holmes said, pocketing the bullet, and standing up. "It is not suitable for a lady to talk so. Now, we must be off to Scotland Yard."

"_We_ must?" I said. "I can come with you?"

"Certainly," Holmes said, approaching the door. "I wouldn't leave anyone in an apartment under siege from gunfire!" He turned to leave the room, then stopped suddenly, and looked back at me;

"I don't suppose you could find me another hat?"

As we were leaving Baker Street (Holmes with a smart black porkpie hat clapped on his head,) Morrison and is colleague, Wilson, came running up to us, and reported that there was no sign of the gunman. Holmes did not look at all surprised. We got a cab to Great Scotland Yard Road (the public entrance to the Yard,) with Holmes sitting quietly, and looking completely unaware of the world around him for the entire journey. When we reached our destination, Holmes asked our cabby to wait a moment, and then marched with purpose through the Scotland Yard entrance, past hoards of jostling people, and I had to run to catch up with him.

"Inspector Lestrade, please," he said, bluntly to the man at the desk. "Tell him it's an emergency."

"Up here, Holmes," called a voice from the nearby stairway. Holmes and I looked up to see the familiar Inspector standing in the middle of the staircase, with a folded newspaper under his arm. "What's the grand emergency, then?"

"Inspector!" Holmes dashed up the staircase to meet him, and I hurried behind. "You must send a message to the parents of Matthew Blackburn in Cornwall immediately! Do you know their address?"

"We can get anyone's address, Holmes," said Lestrade. "But what's this all about? Something to do with this Moore case, I trust?"

"Matthew Blackburn is the fiancé – or former fiancé – of Mr. Ernest Moore's daughter, Miss Rebecca Moore."

"Former, you say?"

"Yes. You see, we have reason to believe that Mr. Moore was blackmailing Mr. Blackburn..."

"Holmes!" I said, exasperatedly. "Aren't you going to tell him that someone has just tried to murder you?" Lestrade's funny little eyebrows shot up.

"Murder _you_, sir?"

"Oh, yes," Holmes said, as though he had completely forgotten about the incident. "Miss Winchester and I were both shot at through the window of 221b this morning."

"Dear God, Holmes, are you both alright?"

"Clearly, Inspector, unless one of us appears wounded to you. The far more important matter at the moment is to find out if Mr. Matthew Blackburn really was away when the murder took place! Can you send his parents a telegram? Make sure not to say anything in it that could put them on their guard, mind you."

"Right away. But, Holmes!" Lestrade called, as Holmes began making his way back down the staircase; "Don't you want some kind of protection? After all, someone has just tried to kill you..."

"I shall consider myself protected when Mr. Ernest Moore's murderer hangs from a rope!" Holmes said; and, twisting round, he stalked back out in to the street, while I kept close to his heels.

"Now where are we going?" I demanded, as Holmes helped me back in to the cab.

"Back to the Albert Hall, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, ominously. "There has been something bothering me ever since the start of this case, and I think I have finally determined what!"

Whenever Holmes was hot on the trail of something, I doubt that even the Roman Legions could have stopped him from getting to where he wanted to go! He fairly leapt from the cab when it pulled up outside the Royal Albert Hall, pulling a strange little metal object from a leather pouch, and simply picked the lock on the doors as though he were letting himself in to his apartment. I glanced about, worried that someone would notice, but the only person around was a small, darkly dressed man, peeling the posters for _'King Lear' _from the theatre walls.

"Holmes, we shouldn't be here!" I whispered as we entered the auditorium, which seemed darker than on our previous visit.

"There is no need to whisper, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, casually. "Lestrade had the place closed down for the week after the murder took place. There is no one here but us, and perhaps Mr. Smith, the cleaner, who I think we are safe from. Now, if you would come up here..."

Holmes led the way up to the stage, and I froze at the memory of Ernest Moore lying dead, bathing in a pool of his own ruby blood...

The body, however, had long been taken away, and the stage had been wiped clean of every visible trace of Mr. Moore's blood. Holmes threw his hat and cane aside, and swung himself up on to the stage, lying flat on his back in the spot where Mr. Moore had been found.

"Come here, Miss Winchester," he said, beckoning me up on to the stage. I nervously climbed the steps, still feeling rather sickly at the memory of all that blood.

"Am I lying in the spot where Mr. Moore's body lay?" Holmes asked.

"About there, yes."

Holmes reached in to his coat pocket, and took out a piece of chalk.

"Would you then, please, draw as best as you can from memory the outline of the area of blood which surrounded him?"

I uneasily took the chalk from Holmes, and paused for a moment, trying to recall just how large the pool of blood had been. I started at Holmes's head, and drew a wide, almost oval shape that stretched in front of the left wing of the stage.

"Done?"

"That looks like it, yes," I said, taking a step back to look at my work. Holmes sprang up, and looked at the chalk outline.

"Excellent. Now, for this exercise, I wish you to play the part of the murderer."

"Alright," I said, not quite sure where Holmes was taking this.

"I shall be Mr. Smith, backstage in the dressing room. Now, when I shout 'go', I want you to shout 'BANG'," I nearly jumped out of my skin, "as loud as you possibly can, as though you have just shot Mr. Moore. I then want you to go to the wall where the bullet struck, taking extra care to avoid the chalk outline, pretend to switch the bullet embedded in the wall, and then run down the aisle to the doors."

"Why do I need to keep outside the chalk?"

"Because there were no bloody footprints trailing up the aisle. Therefore, the murderer must not have stepped in the blood when they went to exchange the real bullet for the substitute. Is that all clear?"

"Quite clear," I said, nodding, slowly. "There's just one thing...Holmes, _why_ are we doing this?" Holmes answered with a mischievous smile.

"You'll soon see."

He disappeared in to the wings, and I heard his footsteps retreating backstage to the dressing room.

"Ready?" his muffled voice called.

"Yes!" I called back, deciding to simply go along with Holmes's plan, and see where it led.

"Alright...Go!"

I thrust out my arm, pointed my hand before me like a gun, and shouted, "BANG!" I heard Holmes make a noise in the dressing room. Quickly, I took the imaginary second bullet from my pocket, and went to switch it with the first bullet in the wall. As I approached the edge of the wing where the first bullet had struck, however, I realised that the pool of blood (or the circle of chalk,) was stretched out at my feet, blocking my access to the bullet in the wall. I tried stretching across, but I couldn't quite reach, and so looked about for another way to get to the bullet. The only way seemed to be to go around the blood, and enter in to the back section of the wings, then walk to the front, and reach my arm around to pluck the bullet from the wall. I tried this, and proudly found that I had solved the problem, and pretending to exchange the bullets.

"Well well, Miss Winchester," Holmes' voice suddenly said beside me, and I looked up to see him standing in the doorway that led backstage. "What are you still doing here, when you and your purple cloak should be all the way to the end of the aisle by now?"

"I couldn't get around the blood," I told him.

"Exactly!" Holmes gave a little jump, and his eyes flashed, brilliantly in the darkness of the wings. "And what does this prove?" The answer seemed so inexplicable, that I could scarcely bring myself to say, it simply had no reason behind it...

"That Mr. Smith was lying when he said he saw the murderer fleeing up the aisle?"

Holmes grinned, broadly, and nodded.

"But _why_?" I said, my head spinning. "Why did he lie?"

"My suspicion is that he was paid to," Holmes said, leading me out of the wings; "Or, perhaps, that he was blackmailed to, on account of his mistress. Whatever the reason behind his lie, Miss Winchester, it convinces me that we are no longer dealing with a single murderer."

"We're not?" I said, wearily, as Holmes collected his hat and cane.

"No. There has been a great deal of organisation put in to this crime, more than one person could have done alone. I am convinced that one person was here, in the auditorium with Mr. Moore, ready to bribe or blackmail Smith when he came along – assuming they hadn't done that already, that is – while the other shot and killed Moore from somewhere _outside _the auditorium using an airgun, probably the same one they used in Baker Street today."

"But how can you know that?" I gasped, staring at him in disbelief.

For answer, Holmes directed my attention to the long, narrow window that was to the right of the stage. I turned to look up at it, and was struck on the forehead by a beam of smoky sunlight, streaming through a tiny, round break in the glass...


	14. Chapter 13

We arrived back in Baker Street to find Watson talking, animatedly with Mrs. Hudson on the front steps of No. 221b. When he saw us dismounting from the cab, he promptly dropped his doctor's bag, and came rushing over to us with a horrified expression on his face.

"Holmes, Miss Winchester!" he cried. "Mrs. Hudson had someone fetch me from the surgery...She says someone tried to shoot you!"

"It was Holmes they were trying to shoot, Dr. Watson," I said, placing a protective hand on Holmes's arm (which he instantly brushed off.) "It was the murderer, you see, Ernest Moore's murderer. They'd come to stop Holmes from finding out the truth."

"There is no need to be so melodramatic, Miss Winchester," Holmes sniffed. "It was the act of a coward, attempting to save his own skin."

"His?" Watson said. "Are you saying it was Matthew Blackburn then, Holmes?"

Holmes gazed, intently ahead of him, and I could almost hear the cogs of his mind turning.

"I should say that Mr. Blackburn is most definitely caught up in all this somewhere," he said, pensively. "But it is his accomplice whom I fear more."

"Accomplice?" Watson said, stunned.

"Yes, you are rather in the dark, my dear Watson. Come inside, we need to share our findings with you."

We all trooped upstairs to the sitting room (the curtains fluttering in the breeze coming through the broken window,) and gathered around the fireplace to discuss what we knew of the case so far.

"Well, it all seems like a great, jumbled mess to me, Holmes!" Watson sighed, after we had finished telling him what we had deduced at the theatre. "First there's a murderer in a purple cloak, then there's a switched bullet, then we find out there was no person in a purple cloak at all, and that the murderer wasn't even inside the theatre when they fired the gun, and now our main suspect is a man who claims he was miles away at the time, and our chief witness is a harlot!"

"It will make a most intriguing addition to your little collection of stories, Watson," Holmes said, fondling the ears of the snoring Gladstone who lay at his feet. "However, I think that this case has been deliberately designed, deliberately thought out, in order to confuse, and throw us off at every turn. We are dealing with a sharp mind, a criminal genius of unparalleled brilliance."

"Mr. Blackburn didn't strike me as being much of a criminal genius," I said.

"Blackburn is a mere accessory. He is too brash and too clumsy, I believe, to be the real brains behind this murder. No..." He thought, deeply for a moment, falling in to that trance-like state where it seemed as though a bubble had enclosed itself around him.

"Miss Winchester," he said, suddenly, looking at me; "Are you still prepared to go and visit Miss Moore this evening?"

"Of course," I said, determined to do anything I could to help this case.

"Good. Send a message ahead, saying that something dreadful has happened, and that you wish to speak to her over dinner. When you get there, tell her of our ordeal this morning, but do not mention anything of our suspicions towards Mr. Blackburn, and certainly do not tell her that it was I who sent Miss Flower to her. Tell her that the case it proving almost impossible to solve...Well, what are you still sitting in that chair for, Miss Winchester? Get that message to her at once!"

I wrote the message, as Holmes dictated, and sent it off with one of the Irregulars (a boy of about ten, called Charlie, who had turned up to tell Holmes that he had at last found a witness who had been stood outside the Albert Hall at the time of the murder. Although Holmes already knew the truth – that no one in a purple cloak had gone in to the Albert Hall that night – he agreed to see the witness anyway, I think to save the young boy's pride.) At six o'clock that evening, I then dressed myself in the finest dress Rowena had allowed me to have – an emerald green satin gown, overlaid with black lace – borrowed a parasol from Mrs. Hudson, and then set off in a cab to Primrose Hill Road. I arrived at No. 72, however, to find that Miss Moore was not there.

"She won't be very long, miss," the maid assured me, as she let me in. "She's just gone to collect a parcel from the Shipping Office. She knows you're coming – she said she'd be pleased to have someone to talk to a present, after all that's happened."

I covered my wince of guilt, and went to wait in the drawing room. Miss Moore arrived about fifteen minutes later, carrying a brown paper parcel in her hands.

"I'm ever so sorry, Miss Winchester," she said, showing me the parcel; "It's just, this package arrived from my grandfather today, and I simply couldn't wait to collect it. He says it's a present to cheer me up after..." She stopped suddenly with a gulp. "...Oh, I don't suppose you know."

"I can guess," I said, sadly, looking at her left hand. "Your engagement ring's gone."

Miss Moore sighed as she looked at the finger where the glittering ring used to be.

"I sold it," she said, in bitter tones; "Took it to the jewellers and rid myself of it, before he could ask for it back. I couldn't bear to look at it anymore...It would seem that Matthew is not at all the man I thought he was. He has been unfaithful to me."

"That's terrible!" I said, feigning shock.

"Father tried to tell me. He said that Matthew was a bad sort, up to all sorts of sinful things, but I didn't believe him. I thought that he was just interested in my money." She smiled, sadly; "I suppose he did love me after all, in his own obscure way."

Though I knew the truth (that the greedy man had had no regard for his daughter at all, and had been keeping the proof of Blackburn's filthy little secret to himself for months, all in exchange for money,) it seemed kinder to let the poor girl think that her father had at last had an unselfish thought, and really had been trying to protect her.

As we chatted over dinner, I found that I grew to like Miss Moore even more – she conducted herself in a perfectly lady-like fashion, but never gave the impression of being too delicate or feeble (indeed, she was at times possessed of a quite fiery manner,) and was certainly very well educated, and had interesting conversation to make. I fancied that, could I finally make sense of the English social custom, and perfect my decorum, I would quite like to be like Miss Rebecca Moore.

"A _bullet _just came flying through the window at you?" Miss Moore gasped, as I told her of the incident in Baker Street.

"Yes. And not just an ordinary bullet," I said, feeling the excited thrill that always seems to come with recounting a terrifying story, no matter how scared you may have been at the time; "Holmes says that it was designed to cause the most amount of harm possible! _And _it passed within inches of his head!"

"Good gracious!" Miss Moore said, putting a hand to her mouth. "But, Mr. Holmes wasn't harmed, was he? Nor anyone else?"

"No. We thankfully came away without a scratch," I said. I leaned across the table, eagerly; "But I'm still a little afraid for Holmes. We don't know if the gunman might try again."

"You should learn to defend yourselves," Miss Moore said. "Doesn't Mr. Holmes have a weapon of his own?"

"I should think so," I said, trying to think if I had seen a gun or anything of the sort around 221b. "Dr. Watson was an army surgeon; he should have had some training..."

"Don't you know how to shoot?"

As it happened, I had never, at that point in time, picked up a gun in my life. My father had been very skilled at shooting, but he had never taught me how, as Rowena had disapproved of it.

"Well, if your life is at risk, you should certainly learn how to protect yourself!" Miss Moore said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, and standing up. "Follow me."

We left the dining room, and went out in to the hall, Miss Moore leading me to a door just behind the main staircase. Behind it was a flight of dark stairs, leading down. Picking up the globe lamp on a nearby table, Miss Moore signalled me to follow her down the stairs, which I did, but with a little trepidation. As we descended, the air grew colder, and I realised that we were travelling down in to a basement. All was pitch dark, save for the light of the lamp that Miss Moore carried; but, when we reached the bottom of the stairs, Miss Moore turned up a gas lamp that was on the near wall, and I gasped at what I saw.

The basement was a long, low room of a considerable size, with grey, concrete walls, and little furniture, except for a few things; a desk, a walnut gun cabinet, a green rug, and, at the far end of the room, four, round, paper covered boards of varying sizes – shooting targets.

"I've practiced shooting for years," Miss Moore said, setting down her lamp on the desk. "My grandfather used to go hunting with the Duke of Holderness, he taught me. He gave me his best set of sporting pistols when he decided he was too old to keep it up."

My eyes widened as Miss Moore opened the doors of the gun cupboard to reveal six, wooden-handled sporting pistols.

"It's fairly easy," she said, breaking one of the guns, and showing me how to load it. "The pellets just slot in, like this. Then you snap the gun back in to place, pull back the safety – and you're ready to shoot."

I felt odd. I wanted to scream something at her. I wanted to run back to Baker Street, and club Holmes over the head (He'd doubtless known the whole time!) But instead, I gave a nervous smile, took the gun in my hand, and stepped over to shooting targets, where Miss Moore led me.

"Remember to squeeze the trigger, instead of pulling it back," she said, positioning my arm. "Don't close one eye, even though that might seem like the better way of aiming. Relax your arm a little, and, when you feel ready, just point the gun and fire..."

The gun went off like a firecracker in my hand. A burning pain suddenly shot up my hand, and I almost dropped the pistol.

"What was that?" I said, clutching my hand as Miss Moore took the pistol from me.

"I told you to squeeze the trigger rather than pull it," Miss Moore said with a smile. "Hold on, I'll get you a cold flannel." She set down the pistol on the desk, took up the lamp, and went upstairs, leaving me alone with my burned hand and my dark thoughts.

Had Holmes deliberately sent me in to the house of a murderer? Had he placed me here this evening as some sort of trap, to catch his so-called 'criminal genius'. Rebecca Moore was certainly brilliant, and possessed a rare amount of courage, but could she really be the cold, cunning villain who Holmes said we were looking for? I couldn't see her as a murderer...But then, maybe Holmes was right about me? Maybe I _did _let my emotions get in the way of my reason? I liked Rebecca – in fact, I could quite see us being friends after all this was over – so perhaps I was blinding myself to the truth, and convincing myself that she had not arranged the death of her father, with the help of her fiancé, who also hated him? Had they really concocted this awful scheme together, with Rebecca being, as Holmes had said, the real brains behind it all?..

A scream suddenly ripped through the house. Staggered, I stood there, dumbly for a moment, every hair on my body standing on end, my blood suddenly turning cold within me.

"_HELP!" _the voice of the maid screamed from upstairs, all trace of its usual nervousness gone. "_GOD, HELP!"_

Kicking myself in to action, I plunged in to the darkness of the stairway, and ran until I could see the light of the door before me. I rushed out in to the hall, and looked, wildly about. The hysterical sobs of the maid were coming from somewhere in the back of the house. Cutting through the dining room, I searched, frantically, until I found a door, which seemed to lead to the kitchen. I burst through it, and nearly fell down a set of stone steps, then charged down a small, dimly-lit corridor, and suddenly found myself in the large kitchen, with the poor, frantic maid kneeling in the middle of the floor.

"What's wrong?" I said as I approached her. And then I stopped dead in my tracks.

Rolling across the black and white floor tiles was a slowly expanding pool of deep red blood. The maid, in her despair, had knelt in it, and had stained her white apron scarlet. Rebecca Moore lay dead on the floor before her, with a bloody wound in her temple, and fiery brown eyes wide open. But their fire seemed to have burned out...


	15. Chapter 14

"Shot through the head with a soft revolver bullet," Watson sighed, straightening up and shaking his head; "Just like her father."

I had sent the hysterical maid running to Baker Street to fetch Holmes and Watson as soon as I had recovered from the sight of Miss Moore's dark, dead eyes staring at me. Holmes had obviously called in at Scotland Yard on the way, as he and the doctor had arrived with Lestrade and a group of policemen in tow. We were all now gathered in the kitchen (except for the maid, who had been taken upstairs to lie down,) encircling the body of the poor young lady whom I had shamefully suspected of being a murderer. Lestrade took off his hat, and rubbed his forehead.

"You're quite sure that it was the same murder weapon, Holmes?" he asked, looking up at the detective. "And the same murderer?"

Holmes, who was looking distinctly ashen in the face, as he gazed down at the body of Miss Moore, nodded.

"Pity," Lestrade said with frustration; "I would have said it was that ex-fiancé of hers – you know, Matthew Blackburn – taking revenge on her for calling off their engagement. But we've had a message from the boy's parents in Cornwall, Holmes, and he _was _there, just as he said. He didn't start heading back to London until the morning after Ernest Moore's murder." I exchanged an astonished look with Watson.

"But...But then, who was it?" I stammered. "If it wasn't Matthew Blackburn, and it wasn't Miss Moore, then who was it?"

In the corner of the room, Holmes gave a weary sigh, and carelessly nudged at a copper pot on the kitchen table with his cane. Then, he turned towards the doorway, and looked back at us all.

"Follow me," he said.

Transfixed, the three of us (Watson, Lestrade and I,) all hurried out of the kitchen after him. In the doorway, I glanced over my shoulder to see Watson quickly bend down, and close Miss Moore's eyes. Holmes led us all back through the dining room, and in to the drawing room, where he sat down, forlornly on the chaise longue in front of the bay windows. There was an expectant pause...

"Inspector," Holmes said at last; "Matthew Blackburn _is _your man. He arranged for the murders of Ernest and Rebecca Moore, and attempted to murder me this morning." Lestrade gawped at him.

"But Holmes, the man was in Cornwall when Mr. Moore was murdered, how could he have..?"

"Miss Winchester," Holmes said, looking at me; "You recall what I said about my never jumping to conclusions?"

"Yes?" I said, curiously.

"Well, I'm afraid that, in this instance, I did. Upon discovering that there must have been more than one person involved in the murder of Ernest Moore, I instantly assumed that Blackburn's accomplice was his fiancée, who also had ample reason to want her father dead..."

"Who's to say it wasn't her?" Lestrade cut in. "Maybe she was in on it the whole time, but Blackburn decided to kill her after she found out about his...ahem...'excursions' with that other lady?"

"Blackburn has no appetite for violence," Holmes said, placing his fingertips together in that thoughtful manner. "He is a coward, a scoundrel who runs away from his responsibilities, and never wants to get his hands dirty. That was why I assumed Miss Moore had to be the gunman, and the real brains behind the plot. But now I realise that it was Blackburn who instigated these murders, Blackburn who ordered this slaughter..."

"But you said this crime was the work of a genius," I pointed out, struggling to see in to Holmes's mind. "Blackburn's no genius; he's just a sorry little coward, like you said."

"Exactly," said Holmes, looking up at me with a dazzling brilliance in his eyes. "Blackburn wanted this crime done, but he would never have been able to conduct it himself without making some obvious, clumsy mistakes. So he hired someone."

"Hired someone?" Watson said, appalled. "You mean, he hired a killer?"

"A contract killer, rented from an organisation, which would plan all the intricacies of these murders for him – a sinister, but highly sophisticated crime ring."

"Good God, Holmes!" Lestrade said, almost recoiling. "You mean to say that there is such an organisation out there, in London?"

"Most certainly," said Holmes with nod. "I have observed their work many times, Inspector, and I believe that they are responsible for nearly all the great, unsolved crimes of this city, and many other cities beyond. The head of this organisation – the true master behind this crime, and the puppeteer of the gunman whom Blackburn hired – is said to be a man of extraordinary intellect, but with the most diabolical family lineage, that he has become a criminal genius, born at the end of a long line of notorious criminals. I have only heard whispers of his name; for people are too afraid to speak it, as it has become synonymous with pure evil. Sad to say, gentlemen and lady, I think it unlikely that we shall ever know the identity of this notorious villain...But we can at least catch the rat who asked for his help in destroying two lives!"

We all sat in the drawing room, and talked long in to the night. Miss Moore's body was carried away on a stretcher, mercifully covered by a white sheet, past the drawing room door, and out of the house. The poor maid was sent home, weeping in to a lace handkerchief, wailing about how good and kind her mistress was to her, until her sobs were eventually drowned out by the slamming of the front door. The policemen migrated all over the house, one of them darting backwards and forwards past the drawing room to the kitchen, carrying a bucket (He had obviously been assigned the task of cleaning up the blood, and was looking rather pale.) Close to one o'clock in the morning, Watson rekindled the fire in the grate, and we carried on talking. The house gradually fell silent, and I fancied that all the policemen had wandered off back on the beat, or back to their homes. But we four remained there, in that dark, beautiful drawing room, planning to avenge the death of poor Rebecca Moore...

"Miss Winchester!"

I started awake, and found myself lying on the chaise longue, bathed in the pink light of the dawn, with Watson hovering over me.

"It's time," Watson said, ominously.

Gathering my courage, I nodded, and stood up, straightening my dress. Lestrade was getting out of an armchair by the door, which he had apparently slept in, and was putting on his shoes. Holmes, however, seemed not to have slept at all, and was sitting, cross-legged on a pile of cushions he had made for himself on the far side of the room, smoking a cigarette.

We all four piled in to a cab, and set off for Scotland Yard through the misty morning.

"Watson," Holmes said; "I don't suppose you brought your revolver with you?"

"No, I didn't particularly think I'd need it."

"Hopefully we won't, but to be cautious, I brought my own." Holmes produced a revolver from his coat pocket, and proceeded to load it.

"Don't you worry about that, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, with a fiery gleam in his eye. "If this Blackburn chap tries anything, we'll be ready for him. I'll have a dozen or so of my men lined up outside, ready to catch him if he makes a run for it."

"Very generous of you, Lestrade, but Blackburn is simply the world's most selfish man, not the world's most brutal murderer. I doubt we will need an army to catch a rat such as him. A few men positioned outside the door should do, in case he attempts an escape, which I am certain he will."

We stopped off at Scotland Yard, and Lestrade dismounted from the carriage. Within minutes, he had rustled up a group of men, and they had all climbed in to a police wagon.

"What's the address, Lestrade?" Holmes called back to the wagon.

"14c Lexington Street," Lestrade answered.

"Very well. 14c Lexington Street then please, cabby."

As the cab led us trundling back in to Soho, I thought how different the place looked by daylight – bleak, grey, and dusty, nothing like the streets I had seen by night, which had glimmered like a rhinestone in a dinghy setting. Soho, like a werewolf, seemed to transform itself in the moonlight. Our cab took us down a long, seemingly endless road, and then suddenly turned in to a shadowy little corner, stopping outside a great, black door. As I stepped down from the cab after Holmes and Watson, I looked, nervously down the foreboding street, and saw that the police wagon had stopped just at the corner.

"Lestrade and his hunt look ready," Watson commented, following my gaze.

"Then let us give them their fox," Holmes said with a dry smile. He knocked on the door with the end of his cane, and, a few moments later, a wispy looking woman in a night-shawl, bearing a baby in her arms, answered.

"Can I help you, sirs?" she asked, looking from Watson to Holmes.

"Good morning, madam," Holmes said, politely. "So sorry to bother you at this hour, but is Mr. Blackburn at home?"

"You're a bit early, sir," the woman said, jogging the baby up and down as it gurgled. "He might not be awake yet."

"Ah yes, but you see, we heard that Mr. Blackburn might be going away soon, so we made our visit as early as possible in order to catch him."

Watson and I exchanged surprised glances. How had Holmes known that Blackburn would be going away?

"Oh yes, sir, he is leavin' on a trip, I forgot about that," said the woman, stepping aside to let us in. "Why, he's going today, in fact. I'll just go and call him for you."

"No thank you, we'll see ourselves up. May I ask your name, please?"

"Mrs. Harper, sir, I'm Mr. Blackburn's landlady."

Mrs. Harper pointed us up the stairs to the rooms that Blackburn rented, and we silently ascended on to the dark, rough carpeted landing. My heart was drumming in my ears, and I watched as Holmes and Watson exchanged an understanding look, and Holmes placed his hand in his pocket, where his revolver was. Then, in a flash, Holmes had flung open the door, and we all three charged inside. We found ourselves in what I imagine would have been quite a comfortable little sitting room, had the maroon red walls not been stripped bare, and had there not been a pile of cases in the middle of the room. When we entered, the sitting room was empty; but, a moment later, there was a scuffling noise from the direction of the bedroom, and Matthew Blackburn came rushing out, carrying yet another case. He almost dropped it when he saw us.

"Mr. Holmes!" he cried, feigning a smile which was all too transparent. "What are you doing here?"

"Why is he not dead, do you mean?" I spat at the miserable little man.

Blackburn managed to pull quite a convincing frown, but his face turned pale.

"What on earth do you mean?" he said.

"I think Miss Winchester is referring to your attempt to have me killed yesterday, Mr. Blackburn," Holmes said, with an admirable amount of coolness. "Or had you forgotten that?"

"What?" Blackburn said, with, yet again, a very convincing frown. "Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"I suppose you have forgotten the murders of Rebecca and Ernest Moore too, Mr. Blackburn, seeing as writing off a cheque to have someone killed seems such an easy thing for you to do?"

If Blackburn had been pretending before, then he couldn't keep up his charade any longer. His eyes widened with terror, and he dropped the suitcase he had been holding, and clutched at his cravat.

"W-What?" he stammered, dryly. "You can't...How dare you claim such a thing!"

"We know, Mr. Blackburn," Holmes said, pulling out his revolver, and aiming it squarely at Blackburn's head. "We know that you paid an assassin to murder Mr. Ernest Moore for you while you were in Cornwall, so that you could be free of the man who was blackmailing you. We know that you had the same assassin try to shoot me through the window of my apartment yesterday morning. And we know that, just last night, you sent your evil acquaintance on yet a third mission, to kill Miss Rebecca Moore..."

"This is outrageous!" Blackburn spluttered. "I didn't kill Mr. Moore, I didn't kill Rebecca, and I certainly didn't try to kill you!"

"You are not surprised, then, Mr. Blackburn, to hear of Miss Moore's death?"

Blackburn paused, and a look of panic leapt in to his eyes, as he realised he'd been caught out.

"I...I..."

"The police have not been to visit you this morning, and there is no other way you could know of Miss Moore's fate...Unless, of course, you arranged for it to happen yourself."

Blackburn was now as white as a ghost. He backed in to a corner, panting, and clawing at his collar, his eyes bulging with pure terror.

"I...I..." he seemingly couldn't control his stammering.

"Come with us, Mr. Blackburn," Watson said, gently, holding out a hand. "Please...I think you have gotten yourself in far deeper than you ever wanted to. Just come quietly with us, and end all this..."

Blackburn lurched, suddenly out of his corner, his face as wild as a madman, and I threw myself back against a table in horror.

"End it all?" Blackburn gasped, as though he could scarcely breathe. "End my life on the end of a rope, you mean? Force my poor mother to read about my execution in every paper in England? _Never!_"

He lunged across the room, and the sound of breaking glass seemed to shatter the very air, as Matthew Blackburn hurled himself out of the window. I screamed, and buried my face in to Watson's coat in horror, trying not to envision Blackburn's mangled body, surrounded by broken glass on the street below...

"He's alive," Holmes's voice said suddenly. "He's hurt, the wretch, but he's alive. Lestrade and his troops have got him."

I looked up to see Holmes standing at the shattered window, looking down in to the street. He shot past, and thundered down the stairs to the front door, and I relinquished my tight grip on Watson, and hurried after him, blushing at the doctor in an attempt to apologise. Sure enough, when we rushed out on to the street, and turned the corner to where the windows faced, there was Blackburn, torn and bleeding, and with his arm visibly crippled, but putting up a valiant fight with the group of police officers who were wrestling with him.

"Don't, Mr. Blackburn, please!" Watson begged, running forwards. "You'll only cause yourself further injury!"

"Matthew Blackburn," boomed Lestrade, in a far deeper voice than I had ever heard him use, and looking far angrier than I would have thought possible for his cast of face, "I arrest you in the Queen's name for the murder of Mr. Ernest Moore, Miss Rebecca Moore, and for the attempted murder of Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"I don't know anything about that!" Blackburn insisted, glaring at Lestrade. "I'll proudly admit that I had that pompous old, drunken fool shot in the head, but I never asked anyone to kill Mr. Holmes!"

"Mr. Moore may well have been a pompous old, drunken fool, Mr. Blackburn," Holmes said, venomously; "But Miss Rebecca Moore was a fine, promising young woman. You had no right to take her life out of spite!"

Blackburn lowered his head.

"I didn't kill her out of spite," he sobbed, showing genuine grief. "I didn't deserve her, I knew that, I never would have killed her for not wanting to marry me. It was all the fault of that stupid whore! She told Rebecca that her father used to accompany me when I was with her, he'd known all along. She realised that he'd been blackmailing me, and worked out that I killed him."

This revelation almost threw me to the ground! All the time that I had been sitting, having dinner with her, Rebecca Moore had _known _that it was Matthew Blackburn who killed her father! Why hadn't she told me?

"And so you had her shot to save your own, worthless skin," Lestrade sneered, grabbing the young man by his long, blood-matted hair. "You brute! You'll hang for this, no matter how you or any fancy solicitors you produce may protest that your hands never touched that gun! There's blood on your soul as surely as if you had bathed in it!" It was a stirring little speech, which left me rather wanting to applaud Lestrade.

"A case well solved, Inspector," Holmes said, as Blackburn was carried in to the back of the police wagon, sobbing.

"Yes indeed, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, suddenly seeming to morph back in to his usual, weasely self. "A fine adventure, which will no doubt be brought to dazzling colour and life by Dr. Watson here in a future edition of the _Strand_." Holmes pursed his lips.

"Yes, well," he muttered, with, I thought, a minute glance in my direction; "We shall see about that. Goodbye, Lestrade."

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, shaking the detective, heartily by the hand. "I trust you will want me to omit your name when it comes to the print report?"

"Of course."

I thought this a rather surprising agreement, and not a little unfair, but Holmes seemed satisfied, so I didn't question it as the three of us (Holmes, Dr. Watson, and myself,) turned and walked away up Lexington Street.

"Well, now I think we can all go home for breakfast and a good rest!" said Watson with a relieved sigh. "You must be exhausted, Miss Winchester!"

"Don't patronise the young lady, Watson!" Holmes said, sternly, and I felt a thrill of pleasure at his words. "I am sure she is very resilient."

"Actually, I am a little tired, Holmes," I admitted, for I had fallen asleep at around three o'clock this morning on the chaise longue, and had therefore only had about three hours' sleep. "And breakfast would be an excellent idea about now! I hope Mrs. Hudson's made that raisin toast again."

"For yourselves, then," Holmes said, dismissively. "I am quite happy to go without breakfast this morning. Although I think I shall have a short nap, if only for your sanity, doctor," he added, as Watson shot him a disapproving look. "After working so hard on a case such as this, I am sure my mind will be grateful of a rest."

But we were not to be granted much rest, however, for this case, as we were soon to find out, was still not quite over...


	16. Chapter 15

**Note from Agatha: Sorry this chapter took longer than the rest. Had to put S.H. aside for a while to prepare for an exam.**

**

* * *

**We received a brief message from Lestrade that evening;

'Blackburn neatly confessed to all. Case officially closed. Thank you.'

"A rather satisfying little mystery," Holmes said, leaning back in his armchair with Lestrade's message in one hand, and his black clay pipe in the other. "What do you fancy you will entitle it, Watson?" Watson looked up from the book he was reading in surprise.

"I didn't think you were interested in my writing, Holmes?" he said, looking at his friend rather warily. Holmes blew wavering smoke rings at the ceiling, and raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

"True, your writing style is unnecessarily flamboyant," he said, bluntly; "But I am always interested in your choice of titles."

Watson exchanged a glance with me, and twitched his moustache, then thought for a moment.

"Well, maybe...'_The Albert Hall Mystery'_?"

"Ugh."

"What about _'Murder of an Actor'_, then?"

"Watson, what did I say about unnecessary flamboyance? You seem to be attempting to reduce this case to nothing more than the hideous plot line of a penny dreadful! Think of the logic involved, the skill! Focus on the methods of the crime itself, rather than its outcome..."

"'_The Purple Cloak'_?" I suggested, tentatively, stirring my cocoa.

Watson paused, visibly mulling the potential title over in his mind. Holmes paused too, although, as was often the case with Holmes, it was less obvious as to what was running through his mind.

"I rather like it," Watson said, cheerfully, smiling at me.

"Perhaps still a tad melodramatic," Holmes said, his head reclining on the back of his chair, as he stared at the ceiling; "But acceptable." I felt my face flush with pride.

"Very well then, Watson, you may entitle your account _'The Purple Cloak'_," Holmes continued, helping himself to a mug of cocoa from the tray I had brought up; "But please do allow me to take a look at it before you publish."

"Holmes, this is unlike you!" Watson said, looking as though he were not quite sure whether to be pleased or not. "You really want to review my work?"

"Yes. I may wish to make a few _amendments _before you place it before the public, if that would be agreeable with you?"

As he spoke, I quite clearly saw him throw a quick glance in my direction; but after the hectic events of the past few days, I was far too tired to protest or question him. Just then, there came a knocking on the front door downstairs.

"I'll get it," I said (Mrs. Hudson had gone to visit her sons for the evening.) At the door, I was surprised to find Mr. Smith standing there.

"Evening, Miss Winchester," he said, politely, lifting his hat to me (I suddenly remembered Holmes's warning to me about him, and carefully put myself on my guard.) "I believe you and Mr. Holmes visited the theatre the other day. Mr. Holmes must have dropped this." He deposited a silver cufflink, engraved with an S, in to my hand.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Smith," I said, trying not to look at him oddly considering what Holmes had told me. "I'll give it to him."

"You're most welcome, Miss Winchester," the elderly gentleman said, taking my hand in a surprise hand shake. As he did so, however, I noticed something that puzzled me.

His hand did not feel like that of an old man – it was strong, rough from plenty of work, but did not feel wrinkled or bony from age. Seeming to notice my confused frown, Smith quickly let go of my hand, smiled a slightly nervous smile, and hurried away up the street. I gazed after him for quite a few minutes, deeply perplexed, and not a little unsettled. There was something not quite right here...

Exactly what that thing was struck me like a bolt of lightning, as I happened to glance down at my hand. The one Mr. Smith had just held...

"_Holmes!_" I cannoned up the stairs, my head reeling from the horror of it all, but determined to do right. I shot in to the sitting room, and Watson fairly leapt out of his skin as, in my eagerness, I barged in to the back of the settee.

"What is the matter now, Miss Winchester?" Holmes sighed, casually, his facial muscles evidently not acquainted with the expression of surprise.

"At the door, it was..."

I was crucially interrupted by a second knock on the front door.

"My my, we are besieged with visitors this evening!" Holmes remarked. "Will you see who that is, Miss Winchester?"

"But Holmes, there's something..."

"Come come, girl, we can't leave them standing on the doorstep all night!"

This took me somewhat by surprise. It was a very familiar way in which to scold me, somewhat like how my father used to do it. Now too taken aback to speak, I growled with frustration, and went somewhat huffily downstairs to see who was at the door. On the doorstep, I found what at first glance appeared to be a bear; but a second, more careful inspection revealed, to my relief, a particularly hairy, squat man, with an enormous, dark beard covering most of his face, and wearing a tweed coat, patched and mended with green cloth. By his side stood the excitable little Irregular named Charlie.

"Hello, miss," the boy said, blushing as he addressed me. "I mean, good evenin', miss. Is Mr. H in?"

"Y-es," I said, slowly, observing the peculiar, hairy man, who was staring, fixedly at his boots. "Who is this, may I ask?"

The bearded tramp suddenly looked up, and gave me a swift salute, revealing a blue anchor tattooed on a filthy wrist.

"Barker, m' lady," he said, his voice reduced to a croak by a throat shrivelled by too much tobacco and whisky. "Formerly of 'er Majesty the blessed Queen's Royal Navy. I believe Mr. 'olmes wants a word with me?"

"Oh," I said, suddenly realising why Barker was here. The case – the Purple Cloak case. Holmes had solved it, but had forgotten to tell Charlie that there was now no need for the lounger from outside the Royal Albert Hall (even though there had never been any real need in the first place.) But I couldn't help but feel a crushing sympathy for the poor boy who had gone to the trouble of hunting this generously bearded ex-sailor down, and so I smiled, politely at the two of them, and invited them inside.

"Holmes, Charlie's found that witness from outside the Royal Albert Hall, who you were asking for," I said as the three of us entered the sitting room, and accompanied my words with a meaningful stare at Holmes. The detective gave a weary sigh, but, after a sharp cough from Watson, deigned to politely sit up and listen.

"Good evening, sir. May I ask your name?"

"Thomas Edward Barker, sir," the tramp said with dignity; "Formerly of 'er Majesty Queen Victoria's Royal Navy, God save the Queen. I understanders you were lookin' for people stood outside the Royal Albert 'all on the night of the 23rd?"

"That's right," said Holmes, but I noticed that his eyes were not entirely focused. "Have you any information?"

"As a matter of fact, I 'ave, sir," Barker said, proudly, and I thought I could just make out a smile trying to be seen through his tangle of beard.

"Very well then, Mr. Barker," Holmes said, lounging back with his pipe, and pretending to look interested. "Go on."

"Well, sir, I was stood at the corner of the Albert at around midnight, waitin' for an old mate of mine, when I saw this gentleman in a grey top 'at come swanin' up. Looked really pleased with 'imself. 'e went in through the doors – they weren't locked, I thought that was a bit odd – and about ten minutes later..."

"You heard a gunshot, but did not see anyone go in after the first gentleman, Mr. Moore," Holmes said, carelessly, amidst his cloud of tobacco smoke. Mr. Barker raised his enormous eyebrows.

"Yes, sir, that's right," he said, staring at Holmes. "But I did see someone come _out _just after the gentleman went in."

The silence that followed was possibly the heaviest I have ever heard in my life. Holmes emerged from his tobacco cloud like a cat pouncing out of the mist in a churchyard.

"What?"

"Someone came out of the backstage door. I could see it from where I was y'see, there's a lamp above it at the end of the alley..."

"_Who was it?_" Holmes pressed, leaning forwards as though he were about to dive off of his chair.

"Why, it was that Mr. Smith, sir – y'know, the old fellow who cleans up in the theatre. I saw 'im come out of the backstage door just after that other gentleman went in, that Mr. Moore. Then I 'eard a noise..."

"A gunshot?" Holmes said, in barely more than a whisper.

"It could've been, sir, I'm not sure. It was a quiet gun if it was, just sounded like a crack. That's why I didn't think of tellin' anyone, y'see, I didn't know what'd just 'appened. Anyway, a little after that, Smith came back round, and went back inside. That's what I saw, sir."

"Holmes..." I threw myself in to the conversation.

"Not now, Miss Winchester!" Holmes barked, standing up, and heartily shaking Mr. Barker by the hand. "Thank you, Mr. Barker, you really have been a great help. Here is five pounds for your trouble."

"Why, thank you, sir! That's very good of you."

"Not at all. Good evening, Mr. Barker."

The old naval officer gave another salute, and was then led back downstairs by a very pleased looking Charlie. As soon as the pair were gone, Holmes threw down his pipe in a rage.

"Fool!" he cried, marching in to his room, and returning a moment later with his coat. "Watson, I have been a prize fool! Smith has been deceiving us all this time!"

"_Holmes, will you..?_" I began with frustration, but I was silenced by Holmes's warning finger.

"Smith, Holmes?" Watson said, incredulously. "You don't mean Smith's caught up in all this, too?"

"I should have seen it. Once again, I jumped to a conclusion without considering it logically. Smith wasn't paid off by the gunman, he _was _the gunman!"

"_Holmes, for God's sake..!_" I cried, jumping up and down, and waving my hand at him.

"Miss Winchester, what have I told you about using obscene language? Yes, Watson, Smith is our hired killer, and he is no old man, either. That smear of make-up on his jaw line – Oh, I was so stupid! It wasn't a woman's make-up at all, it was stage make-up."

"Holmes, do you mean to say..?" Watson looked so shaken up by the revelation, that I was afraid he would faint; "...Do you mean to say that Smith is a younger man, _disguised _as an older man?"

"Precisely! It was a cunning trick, and confirms what I already suspected – that this killer is a member of that brutal organisation, led by a most notorious criminal genius. Who would suspect a harmless old man, working as a cleaner, who seemed so eager to assist us with our enquiries? We must get him, Watson! We must get him, before he slips away!.."

"But, _Holmes!_" I said, stamping my foot for his attention. "He was just here!" Holmes and Watson stared at me.

"Here?" Holmes said, taking a step towards me. "At the door?"

"_Yes!_"

"Well, why did you not stop him, Miss Winchester?" Holmes said, exasperatedly. "Did your logical train of thought escape you again?"

"No, it didn't!" I said, glaring at him. "Because I knew minutes ago! That's what I've been trying to tell you! Look what he left on my hand."

I held out my hand for them both to see, and showed them the sprinkling on gunpowder that was smeared on my palm. Watson looked at me in astonishment.

"Come Watson, Miss Winchester!" Holmes said, urgently, throwing on his coat, and waving us downstairs. "We must fetch Lestrade at once! Then, back to the Royal Albert Hall! Let us see if we can finally corner our rat!"


	17. Chapter 16

The police wagon bounced along the cobbles, rocking perilously from side to side, and battering its passengers against the walls, as it hurtled to the Royal Albert Hall.

"A disguise, Holmes?" Lestrade spluttered, launching across the cramped vehicle, and fairly landing on the laps of the uniformed constables who accompanied us. "Mr. Smith is a young gentleman _in a disguise_, you're quite sure of that?"

"Quite sure, Lestrade," Holmes assured him, his upper body thrusting forwards, and nearly being impaled on his cane. "I am sure that we shall discover this brute to be a sublime and undoubtedly famous actor, once we have gotten his real name out of him. Smith indeed!" he added, contemptuously, as though sneering at the lack of imagination.

"But why get a job at the Albert just to kill Mr. Moore?" Watson asked, leaping at least a foot in to the air, and nearly banging his head against the roof of the wagon. "Surely, there must have been easier ways of achieving his goal?"

"I think you will find that Mr. Smith has been the cleaner of the Royal Albert Hall for ten years," Holmes said, gripping his seat to stop himself from being thrown to the floor, as the wagon gave another violent lurch. "Is that not so, Lestrade?"

"That's right," Lestrade said, accidently knocking off one of the constables' hats.

"Indeed. I believe that this organisation that our Smith is a most treasured member of has agents positioned in areas all over London – perhaps even all over the country – posing as ordinary working folk, but in reality acting as the disguised wolf in the flock of lambs, ready to strike whenever a client of their master asks them to."

"That's horrible!" I gasped, feeling a sickening sensation clutch at my heart (and an annoying thud against my shoulder, as I was thrown in to Lestrade.)

"There's just one thing, Holmes..." Watson began, but his sentence was cut off as the wagon swerved around a corner, and we all crashed against the right wall. After we had all picked ourselves up from our heap, Watson continued; "...Just what are we going to do to catch this highly skilled and well trained contract killer?"

"We have the element of surprise, Watson," Holmes replied. "The scoundrel no doubt thinks his work done, and believes that he is safe – no one has any reason to suspect him now that Mr. Blackburn has been caught and charged. We shall catch him off guard, and take him as our prisoner."

"That's my job, Holmes," Lestrade said, firmly, just before I cannoned in to him for a second time.

"Holmes," I said, a little nervous of Holmes's plan to simply confidently stroll in, and take Smith by surprise; "May I remind you that Mr. Smith is the man with the airgun?"

"What do you imagine Mr. Smith will do, Miss Winchester?" Holmes said, sardonically. "Produce the fully loaded and assembled, four foot long gun from under his hat?"

"I was just saying..." I managed to protest, before I slammed in to Lestrade again.

"Miss Winchester, will you kindly stop battering the Inspector, and stop worrying? Lestrade and his men are all armed, and for once, I have faith in them. Watson, you have your revolver too, I trust?"

"Right here, Holmes," Watson said, patting his coat pocket.

"Hang on a second!" Lestrade said, sharply. "What does 'for once' mean?"

The wagon finally came to a juddering hault just outside the theatre, and we all staggered out.

"At least you got your exercise," I muttered, giving each of the hard run horses a pat on the nose.

"Absolute silence, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, as we approached the theatre doors. "Smith must not be alerted to our presence. Lestrade, I suggest you send some of your men to the backstage door, in case he tries to flee."

"Right away, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, gesturing to his group of officers. Half of them hurried to the backstage door, while the other half, led by myself, Lestrade, Watson and Holmes, ventured in to the Albert Hall, silently making our way to the auditorium.

The beautiful, cavernous space was as quiet as death. We crept down the central aisle, with Holmes stalking, confidently ahead, like a leopard rapidly closing in on its prey. He stopped before the stage – the stage where Ernest Moore's murder had taken place – and called out; "Smith!"

I thought he was mad. I glanced, nervously about, jumping at every shadow, and rather embarrassingly clinging to Watson's sleeve. But there was no movement in the dark auditorium, no sound, no sign of the funny little cleaning man who was in fact a brutal contract killer.

"We know you're here, Smith!" Holmes called, defiantly. "We know of your role in Ernest Moore's murder!"

There was a rustle from the stage. Watson pulled me back a short distance down the aisle, and Lestrade held up a hand to his officers, ready to call them forward. My eyes widened as I saw the small figure who walked forward in to the patch of moonlight, and I heard a horrified gasp from Watson.

"Mr. H, sir," the boy Charlie whimpered, wringing his hands together. "Please sir, I'm so sorry, 'e made me tell 'im about Mr. Barker an' what 'e saw!"

Below the stage, Holmes stood as still as a granite statue. We had walked right in to a trap!

"_Take cover!_" Lestrade bellowed, a mere second before the first bullet came hurtling in to the auditorium. It made no sound – it was like Death flying in to the room on silent wings – except for the faint smash of a hole being broken in the nearby window.

There was a rush of confusion as two of the officers pushed past me, blocking my view, and someone (I think Watson,) shoved me down in to the seats on to my knees, sheltering me from the gunfire. My heartbeat filled my ears, and I could feel the blood pulsing in my temples. I did not know whether the bullet had hit anyone or not, and a truly sickening feeling of fear washed over me as I realised that Holmes had been standing directly in front of the window. A moment later, however, I was relieved to hear the sound of his voice;

"What about Rebecca Moore, Smith? You mean to tell me that you would even stoop to the level of killing an innocent young woman, if it meant more money in your pocket?"

I cautiously peered over the top of the seat I had been stuffed behind, and saw Holmes crouched down on the floor, attempting to press himself flat against the side of the stage. The poor little boy, Charlie, was now sheltering in the wings, his form a mere trembling lump, wrapped inside the red velvet curtain.

"And you kidnap children, all for the sake of a paycheque?" Holmes sneered, although I could see his sharp eyes, glistening in the moonlight like a cat's, focused entirely on the window, and seemingly searching for something.

This time, I heard the shot; although it was not quite a shot, more of a crack (as Mr. Barker had described it,) like a piece of wood snapping. The gun had evidently been silenced in some way. A whistling sound sailed through the air, but my eyes were too slow to catch sight of the airborne bullet; unlike Holmes's, which seemed, truly, to be capable of observing everything, even in the semi-darkness. He shot to one side, and dived head-first in to the band pit, landing on something with a metallic clatter.

"Holmes!" Lestrade called from across the auditorium, before a third bullet forced him to duck back behind a pillar. Holmes's glossy black head popped up, closely followed by his shoulders, as he heaved himself up a little over the edge of the band pit. His eyes once again scanned the window.

"_There!_" he cried suddenly, pointing with a triumphant finger. "There he is, Lestrade! On the second floor of that bookshop, in the very back window!"

A bone-shuddering shot rang out through the Hall, and I looked down in to the front row of seats to see Watson standing up, firing his revolver out of the window. I felt a surge of admiration for the doctor, as he dived across to the band pit where Holmes was, seemingly oblivious of the fourth bullet which had just come rocketing in to the room, and sat, valiantly beside his friend, aiming his revolver with a steady hand, and firing up at Smith. Holmes pulled himself up halfway out of the band pit, and took out his own revolver, firing alongside Watson.

"Get him, Lestrade!" Holmes ordered, glancing back at the Inspector. "Hurry, before he gets away!"

Lestrade looked across at his group of officers, who were now scattered throughout the auditorium seats.

"Well, you heard him!" he said, authoritively. "The bookshop opposite, second floor! _Go!_"

In a flash, the uniformed officers banded together, and charged out of the theatre to apprehend the gunman.

"Get out, Lestrade!" Holmes said, still madly firing his gun at the window. "We'll distract him, you need to make sure he's dragged in to the back of that wagon once and for all!"

"And leave you two to get shot?" Lestrade called back, now taking out his own revolver, and adding to the assault of bullets that was raining down on Smith. "I don't bloody think so, Holmes!"

I watched this storm of gunfire in a sort of frozen, disbelieving state, almost convincing myself that it was not real, and that I was in fact observing a play in the theatre. Suddenly, young Charlie fought his way out of the curtain he had tangled himself in, and darted across the stage, desperate to get away from the booming of the guns. A bullet whistled just inches in front of him, splintering the stage at his feet. Starting, the young boy overbalanced, and fell over the edge of the stage, landing, heavily on the floor below. Feeling a jolt of horror for the child caught in this crossfire, I leapt up, and ran out in to the battlefield, throwing myself on to the floor next to Charlie, and attempting to scoop him up.

"_DON'T!" _Holmes's cry came too late.

A burning pain struck me in the ribs. It was the purest, most intense and unbearable pain I have ever experienced in my life, and I felt the blood spurting out of me like a gushing, hot fountain. My breath caught in my throat, and the fiery pain seemed to travel through my veins, until it wracked by entire body, and I simply crumbled, and thudded on to the floor. I tried to breathe, but my lungs seemed to be stuck, and slowly, darkness began to creep in to my vision. The white hot pain that had previously cut through me like a knife was now replaced by a cold numbness, and my body seemed to be plunged in to a heavy lethargy, even though my mind was still screaming with horror.

I do not remember closing my eyes, but I must have passed out, for my desperate efforts to move in any way, or to utter Holmes's name with my paralysed tongue, disappeared in to a world of blackness.


	18. Chapter 17

I was suddenly aware of being awake, and lying in a comfortable, soft bed, with my hands folded over my stomach, and a cool breeze gently whispering past me. My eyes fluttered open, and were instantly stung by the brilliant daylight. Once my eyes had grown accustomed to the light, however, I was greeted by the sight of a domed, tiled ceiling above me, and the smell of soap mingled with fresh air wafted under my nose. I was mightily confused, as the last thing I remembered was lying in the dark auditorium of the Royal Albert Hall, in blistering agony; but the cold air whooshing past my right side told me that I was next to an open window, and presently I wanted to get up and close it, as the sensation was rather starting to annoy me. To my frustration, however, I found that my arms and legs were as heavy as lead, as though I had not used them for some time.

"...She's still asleep, Mr. Holmes," a woman's voice said a little distance away, accompanied by the sound of two pairs of footsteps coming closer, echoing on the tiled floor. "We're awfully worried that she's never going to wake up. She went in to a rather severe state of shock just after she was injured."

"You need not be concerned, Sister Rose," came Holmes's unmistakable voice, making my heart jump. "A bullet in the side is not enough to defeat Miss Winchester, believe you me. I am not worried in the slightest."

A bit of feeling came creeping back in to my limbs, and I suddenly remembered that I had a voice, and opened my mouth to speak. My throat was as dry as a bone, but I finally managed to croak, "Holmes."

The footsteps came rushing up the long room, and two faces suddenly appeared above me – one was Holmes, and the other was a young nurse in a snowy white wimple.

"You see?" Holmes said to the nurse, with, I could almost have sworn, a trace of pride in his voice. "A little bleary perhaps, but none the worse for wear." I would have laughed at him, but my chest was in too much pain to withstand laughter.

"I'll just fetch the doctor," the nurse said, and her face disappeared from my view, her footsteps echoing away down the room.

Holmes moved to the side, and I gently persuaded my head to turn on my pillow and follow him. It was here that I at last saw where I was. I was in a half empty hospital ward (the only other occupied beds being at the far end of the room,) with the now familiar sound of London traffic coming in through the open windows that were spaced evenly between the beds along the tiled walls. Holmes was seated in a wicker chair close to my bedside, glancing, casually up and down the ward.

"Holmes," I muttered to him, still feeling rather groggy; "Could you close that window? There's a cold draft."

"The doctors here say the fresh air will do you good," Holmes said.

"Holmes, compared to Virginia, the air here's not exactly fresh!"

A small smile tugged at the corner of Holmes's mouth, and he stood up, and closed the window.

"What happened?" I said, struggling to sit up, but being forced back down by a shooting pain in my side.

"You acted like a fool, that's what happened," Holmes said, severely. "You sheltered young Charlie when he fell from the stage and broke his wrist, but took a bullet to your right side. I suppose in America such acts of stupidity are considered heroic? Well, fortunately the bullet that struck you was defected in some way, and didn't mushroom out on impact. Watson said it was a miracle. If it had, you would most certainly be in the hospital morgue by now, with shattered ribs, and a punctured lung. As it is, you went in to an almost death-like state, and have been unconscious for three days." My insides turned cold as I realised how close I had come to death.

"What about Smith?" I asked, remembering the man who had done this to me. Holmes's face contorted for a moment in to a furious expression.

"He escaped," he said, coldly. "The Scotland Yarders reached his perch to find the gun, but no gunman. He has completely disappeared."

I thumped the bed covers in anger. Just then, the young nurse, Sister Rose, came hurrying back up the ward, accompanied by another nurse, and a middle-aged doctor in a white coat.

"Pardon me, Mr. Holmes, but would you mind stepping to one side for a moment?" the doctor said, rather rudely shoving Holmes out of the way. "Sister April, will you undress the patient's wound please?"

The second nurse came forward with a smile, untied the fastenings along the side of my white hospital gown, and lifted the bandages that were wrapped tightly around my ribs. The doctor peered at the horrible red and purple scar underneath, which stretched across my ribs like crooked fingers.

"Yes, that's healing nicely," he said, and the nurse replaced the bandages. "It's lucky that Dr. Watson managed to take the bullet out so quickly, or it might have slipped between the ribs, and caused a fair amount of damage." (I made a mental note to thank Watson when I next saw him.)

"When will I be able to go – ," I swallowed the unspoken word 'home' as I looked at Holmes, and corrected myself; "When will I be able to leave the hospital?"

"In a couple of days, I should think," the doctor replied; "Just as long as we're sure there's no infection, and that you can move comfortably. Now, you must be hungry – you haven't eaten in three days. Sister April here will bring you some food. Sister Rose, I think you can attend to your other patients now."

The three of them departed, and Holmes looked rather scornfully after the arrogant doctor. Then, he came forward and dropped something on to my bed covers. It took a few seconds for my befuddled brain to realise what it was.

"Holmes!" I gasped, picking up the familiar string of pearls. "How did..? Where did you find them?"

"Things have been happening during your absence, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, with a thoroughly pleased grin. "For example, I regret to inform you that your stepmother has been arrested, and is awaiting trial for a shocking number of insurance swindles."

"_What?_" I could have brought down the ceiling with my shout. "Insurance swindles?"

"Yes. You see, I grew suspicious when I saw that the suitcases your stepmother had given you were particularly dilapidated. Your family was at least fairly well-off if your father could afford to buy your stepmother pearls for their wedding day, so why had she not bothered to replace her old suitcases? A small amount of investigating – " (_"Prying, you mean," _I thought to myself,) – "revealed that your stepmother was, in fact, severely in debt, as her alcoholic father had wasted most of the family fortune on drink. She was able to keep the old family house, and satisfy her luxurious tastes, however, by claiming on the insurance policies she had taken out on several valuable household objects, such as those pearls, which she claimed had been either damaged or stolen."

I was tempted to utter a particularly foul curse on Rowena's name, but resisted.

"Will she be put in prison?" I asked Holmes.

"Most likely. In the meantime, the house has been sold off in order to pay the family debts, and what remains has reverted to you. It amounts to a fair sum – enough to set yourself up in rooms of your own, I fancy."

My delight at Rowena being sent to prison, and at having means of my own, suddenly dropped like a stone over a cliff. Of course – Holmes had not done any of this out of care for me, he had just wanted me out of Baker Street.

"I see," I muttered, playing with the string of pearls in my lap, and fighting back a wave of childish tears.

"Of course, all this must have come as quite a shock to you," Holmes went on, "and you will no doubt need time to recover from your recent injury. I think it would be best if you stayed with Dr. Watson and myself for a short while...merely until your health improves."

I looked up in complete astonishment, and saw that Holmes was gazing very firmly out of the window. I smiled at him (a smile which he steadfastly ignored,) and said, "Thank you."

"It is the decent thing to do," Holmes said with a sniff. "I recovered your clothes and other possessions that were still at Mrs. Winchester's house, they're now in your room at Baker Street. I saved the pearls, as I didn't know whether you would want them or not – they were bought with your father's money. I can transfer their value in to your estate, if you don't want to keep them?"

I looked at the beautiful pearls for a moment, each one like an elegant, glistening full moon, bound together on their string with a diamond star. But they were _Rowena's _pearls, worn by that ghastly woman on the day she had married my father, and become the curse of my life...

"Take them away," I said, holding the pearls out to Holmes as though they were a rag, dripping with slime. "You can keep them. They can be my payment to you for solving my case."

"And a very fine souvenir they shall make, Miss Winchester," Holmes said, pocketing my gift. "It has been a very interesting week; one that I am sure I shall not soon forget..."


	19. Chapter 18

"But _why _can't I publish my account of the Purple Cloak case, Holmes?" Watson demanded, following his friend in to the sitting room. "I haven't even started writing it yet!"

"I have told you, Watson, that the public is not yet ready for the true facts of this case," Holmes said, irritably, placing his amber stemmed pipe back in the pipe wrack on the mantelpiece. "Now do not pester me any more on this matter, or I shall clam up for the next week, and not even open my mouth to eat!"

Watson struggled with himself for a moment, then at last gave up, and sat himself down on the settee next to me.

"I know he has no faith in my writing skills," he whispered to me, as Holmes disappeared in to his room for a moment; "but he's never actually banned me from writing about a case before!"

"I'm sure it's nothing to do with your writing skills, Watson," I said, comfortingly, before Holmes emerged, carrying his violin. I shared Watson's disappointment – _'The Purple Cloak' _had been a thrilling case, and I had been greatly looking forward to Watson's written interpretation of it. I also had reason to believe that Holmes's reluctance to let Watson write about the case had something to do with me, and I was not a little worried about it.

It had been five days since I had been released from the hospital. When I had returned, I had found all my missing possessions in my room, as Holmes had said – Holmes had even moved out some of his beloved case souvenirs in order to give me more room (I wondered, as I walked in to the room, where they had been relocated to, and got my answer five seconds later, when Watson walked in to his bedroom, and bellowed, "_Holmes, what have you done?_") Rowena was still awaiting her trial, and Matthew Blackburn awaiting his hanging, and there had been a mass search all over London for the missing Mr. Smith, but in vain. The airgun which Lestrade's men had found on the killer's perch now lay on Holmes's writing desk on the other side of the room.

"Well, Holmes," I said, as Holmes lounged back in his armchair, adjusting the strings of his violin; "Seeing as Watson isn't allowed to give his version of this case, why don't you give yours?"

"Yes," Watson agreed. "I'm sure we'd both benefit from hearing your summing-up of this business, Holmes."

"You, with your infinite wisdom..."

"That is quite enough from both of you!" Holmes interrupted, and Watson and I exchanged mischievous smiles. Holmes placed his violin in his lap, and settled himself properly in to his chair, preparing to enlighten us...

"This Smith, or whatever his real name may be, is a dangerous man. I have in mind four unsolved murders and one jewel robbery, all committed over the last ten years, which could be said to be his work. He played the part of the innocent, elderly cleaning fellow at the Royal Albert Hall to perfection, as no one, in the entire decade of his charade, suspected him – He even paid the owner of a local whore house to occasionally appear in public as his wife. I think it was through this connection that the snivelling Matthew Blackburn, whilst paying crippling sums of money every month to Mr. Moore in order to keep his silence, learned of his services.

All was carefully arranged by Smith and his master, the ingenious head of the organisation. They asked Blackburn to procure for them a second bullet, which would throw the police off the scent in their search for the murder weapon. Blackburn took the first bullet he could lay his hands on – one from the gun room of Miss Rebecca Moore. I don't believe he meant to incriminate her – in fact I believe that, from the start, Blackburn had nothing but love for Miss Moore – but he was stupid, and most likely didn't realise that his actions could have led to the police suspecting her. When this was done, Blackburn arranged, at the instructions of Smith and his wicked employer, to meet Mr. Moore on the stage of the Royal Albert Hall, where Moore was to make the performance to revive his acting career, most likely on the pretence of talking over their monthly arrangement. Blackburn was then told to give himself a secure alibi, and went to visit his parents in Cornwall, a couple of days before his midnight meeting with Moore was to take place.

The trap was now set. Moore arrived at the theatre, as witnessed by the good Mr. Barker, entering through the front doors, which Smith had purposely left unlocked. As soon as he heard Moore's arrival, Smith sprung in to action. He exited the theatre through the backstage door, ran round to the old bookshop on the other side, and climbed the drainpipe up to the disused second floor, where he had already assembled his gun."

Holmes pointed to the airgun which was lying on his desk.

"An ingeniously designed device, constructed in Germany, and specially built so as to make only the slightest noise upon firing. After his work was done, Smith scuttled back down the drainpipe, re-entered the theatre through the way he had left, and switched the bullets from the wings, without having the step out on to the stage, and soak his boots with blood. He then left the theatre again, and went to fetch a policeman, reporting the murder he himself had just committed.

The murder of Rebecca Moore was, I think, a slightly more difficult thing morally for Blackburn to arrange. After Miss Flower had visited her, telling her of the services she paid to her father and Mr. Blackburn, Miss Moore, knowing of her father's substantial gambling debts and dubious character, deigned that he had been blackmailing her fiancé, and that Blackburn therefore had a motive to kill him. She promptly confronted him on the matter, and Blackburn, unable to keep his dreadful sin from the woman he loved, confessed everything to her. Miss Moore then angrily ended their engagement, but a remnant of her love for Blackburn still remained – some women are of the character to love men no matter what their crimes – and she decided not to report him to the police. Had she told Blackburn of her decision, it would undoubtedly have saved her life.

Fearing for his own skin, Blackburn decided that the only way to prevent his being caught by the police was to have his beloved killed. He called Smith out that very night, and the villain took up his perch with his special gun on the rooftop of the house opposite, and waited for his opportunity. When Miss Moore appeared in the kitchen window, fetching a cold flannel for Miss Winchester's hand, he seized his chance, and pulled the trigger. Blackburn, wracked with guilt, then decided to leave London forever, while Smith stayed calmly where he was, convinced that no one could touch him.

Upon returning my lost cufflink, however, he realised that he had made a grave mistake, as he had previously been retrieving the airgun he had left on the roof opposite Miss Moore's house, and had left some of the gunpowder on Miss Winchester's hand. He waited a little way down the street, watching to see what would happen, and spotted Charlie and Mr. Barker leaving. He followed the young boy home, and then snatched him, forcing him to tell him what Mr. Barker had told us. Realising that we would soon be after him, he took up his position in the window of the bookshop on the other side of the theatre, where he could get a clear shot, and, once Miss Winchester was injured, decided to take advantage of the confusion, and make his escape.

There! Have I done enough?"

"More than enough!" Watson said with a laugh, while I applauded.

"Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I would very much like to practice my violin for the next two hours or so. Miss Winchester, have you any requests?"

"Can you play Bach's Partita No. 3?"

"Of course I can," Holmes said, loftily; and he proceeded to play the piece of music quite spectacularly.

_Finis_

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**A note from Agatha: Well, that's my first story done! :D Thank you for all the reviews, so glad you liked it (Particularly Virginia. Best S.H. story EVER? Are you sure?) I have a few more planned (have had these stories stewing in my brain for ages,) eventually culminating in Harriett's involvement in Reichenbach. Thank you so much for reading, and keep reviewing.**

**Agatha x**


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